


The Start of Something New

by CalCal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Class Differences, F/M, Homophobia, Infidelity, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Reconciliation, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:52:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalCal/pseuds/CalCal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after Sherlock Holmes broke John Watson's heart, the two meet again for their class reunion. Having left on bad terms, Sherlock is determined to reconcile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [michi_thekiller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/gifts).



> I went under the username CaliberCalcium, and this fic was deleted unintentionally. Here it is re-uploaded. Sorry for any inconvenience.
> 
> This fic began years ago within another fandom, but myself and MsWinters felt like it would be better re-set and completed within Sherlock :) 
> 
> It is a 100+k fic.

**_He's not coming._ **

Sherlock Holmes scanned the packed ballroom for the hundredth time since he'd arrived ten minutes ago, while attempting to feign interest in Molly Hooper’s incessant chatter.

Molly, resplendent in her white evening dress, a bit too large for her frame he noted, grinned up at him.

She nodded and waved in an awkward, excited motion towards a man that Sherlock didn't recognize. In fact, it was probably someone he hadn't spoken two words to back in the golden days of secondary school.

"And Vance Tibbs has his own tech consultant company in London and Paris. Actually, it was his father's business, but his father retired to Venice. Speaking of going into father’s business, did I hear you were made a partner?" She said in one gigantic breath, before turning her gaze to the man beside her.

He nodded. "That's right."

Molly's dark eyes glittered with curiosity as she glanced across the room at a stunning petite, dark haired lady, who was sharing a laugh with an Asian woman. "Aa, and Irene, too, if I'm not mistaken."

Molly turned back to face Sherlock, her eyes full of unasked questions. Her curiosity was aimed directly at Sherlock, with the full expectations that he would answer everything.

That was all Sherlock needed. Molly, paradoxically both painfully shy and yet a busybody full of good intentions, spreading more rumors about himself and Irene Adler. Despite the passage of ten years, he suspected Molly Hooper was the same compulsive gossipmonger she'd been back in secondary school.

Sherlock turned and watched Irene for a moment. She was talking with Greg Lestrade, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken. He'd heard Greg had done well for himself, become a police inspector with Scotland Yard. Obviously Irene had heard the same thing.

Irene was doing exactly what she always did at social functions. She was diligently working the room; in this case she was ferreting out former classmates who'd done well for themselves and might be in the market for legal services. The woman had a bloodhound's nose for money, and the bullheaded determination required to steer that money into the firm. Anything it required to make her father happy - and his - she was willing to do.

"We both made partner at the same time," he responded.

"You know, the two of you really lucked out. What with both of your fathers being founding partners of such a prestigious law firm."

Sherlock stopped scrutinizing the crowd and gave Molly his full attention. He arched one eyebrow and gave her a chilly look. He said icily, "I prefer to think that luck didn't have much to do with it. Just like with you and your job."

Molly smiled brightly and attempted to recover from her blunder. "Well... I just meant... um, I didn't mean to imply you didn't  ** _deserve_**  to-"

Sherlock dropped his icy exterior and smile back at the flustered ginger. "It's alright. Of course you didn't. I'm sure that Holmes-Adler didn't get to be one of the top legal firms by practicing blind nepotism. Besides, Irene is one pitbull of a lawyer.”

Yes, Irene was one hardworking, ruthless, driven lawyer. She would have succeeded in any law firm, quickly working her way into a partner slot. But, like him, she had chosen to remain in the family business, turning her efforts into the work their fathers had established. It was what they both had wanted since they were children.

Of course, that wasn't all that Irene had wanted... and still wanted at times. And, observing the speculative gleam in Molly's bright blue eyes, Sherlock suspected he'd never be able to live down his past.

Of course, that was probably no less than what he deserved.

As Sherlock looked around the crowded ballroom, he suddenly wished he hadn't come here tonight. That he hadn't come here to the London Heights Club of all places, a venue he avoided whenever possible, along with the shameful memories that went with it.

As it were, there was only one reason that had dragged him from his work, only one motive why he had broken down and returned back to the scene of the so called crime, accepting the invitation to his ten-year school reunion.

And he was a no show.

Sherlock had deliberately arrived late to the social function, well into the cocktail hour that preceded dinner, in the hope that he'd already be there when Sherlock made his grand entrance. However, it was apparent that the object of his interest had more sense than he did, and had blown off the reunion.

Sherlock gave Molly a brief smile as she excused herself and latched onto another one of their old classmates, gouging out the events of the past ten years from the next victim. Sherlock watched her jabber away, giving his head a brief shake.

His own ruthlessness and skill in the courtroom had helped to cement his now renowned fame. However, unlike Irene, Sherlock had certain qualms about the time and places to round up business for the firm, as well as the methods used in the courtroom. Qualms that Irene neither shared nor sanctioned. But both lawyers method of operations seemed to work, more than satisfying the criteria of their law firm, and ensuring the partnership slots for both Irene and himself.

Yes, Sherlock had gotten everything he had wished for back in secondary school.

Well, everything but one.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

With a sigh, Sherlock turned around in a brief circle, once more casing the old ballroom before deciding to cut out. Unfortunately, before he could make a discreet exit, he was stopped by the arrival of a few of his former classmates.

A roly poly man with curly blond hair, a trim beard, and the worst faux tan Sherlock had ever encountered walked up behind the lawyer, giving him a friendly slap on the back. Only quick footwork saved Sherlock's snowy white tuxedo shirt from the crimson liquor that almost sloshed out of his stemmed wineglass.

"Sherlock Holmes! I'd recognize you anywhere!” the man crowed, in a loud obnoxious voice. The paunchy man lowered the volume a bit as he slyly winked at the slightly flustered man and said, "Bet this place must bring back some pretty hot memories for you, hey?"

Sherlock bit his lip to stifle back the scathing comment that lurked on the tip of his tongue, instead resorting to glancing at the man's name badge. It read Alexi Hatcher. Sherlock couldn't believe it. This puffy, jowly loudmouth was the guy all the girls had mooned and pined after? Clearly, the years had not been kind to the former playboy Romeo, "Catcher" Hatcher, once dubbed for his prowess amongst the ladies.

Sherlock politely extended his hand and Alexi pumped it vigorously. Sherlock grimaced slightly even as he asked, "How have you been, Alexi?"

"Oh, not too bad, but not as good as you. I hear from the grapevine that you made partner already. And not just you alone..." Alexi broke off his dialogue as he turned his lascivious gaze over to where Irene was standing. "How's your golf  ** _score_**  lately? Huh?"

Sherlock ignored the statement, pretending not to hear the special emphasis. He blandly said, "I don’t play any sports, Alexi."

The blond laughed. "No? What other fun ways could you  _score_?”

Sherlock shook his head in slight disapproval even as he declined to comment on Alexi's sexual innuendoes about Sherlock's so-called infamous past. However, Alexi's comments were not the end of the thread of conversation, his other former classmates that had accompanied Alexi wishing to join the conversation.

Rhonda Carlson, a still pretty auburn haired lady giggled and purred out with, "Oh, don't go away mad, Sherlock. But then again, it is a nice night for a hole in one, don't you think?"

Sherlock didn't acknowledge the comment, didn't even blink when someone else picked up the opening. "How's that driver of yours holding up, Holmes?"

A high, whiny voice that could only belong to Kevin Messowitz all grown up jumped in with, "Oh, I bet it's got a few good strokes left. Huh, Sherlock? A few good strokes?"

Sherlock had had enough. He deposited his wineglass on a nearby table and turned to make his way towards the exit after murmuring, "If you'll excuse me."

Sherlock was almost to the exit of the ballroom when some unknown person called out,  ** _"Fore!"_** , prompting a burst of laughter.

Sherlock happened to glance over at Irene just in time to see the slow burn make its way upwards from the low, square neckline of her elegant, custom designer gown, a concoction of feminine lace and silk in a seafoam green that complemented her petite figure. He watched with slight amusement as those around her carefully watched her reaction, whispering sly remarks behind their hands.

Incredible, even after ten years, they were still the main topic of gossip and hilarity amongst their fellow classmates.

Irene pinned Sherlock with a cold, unyielding stare that he recognized as the one she had perfected in the courtroom. She shook her head in disapproval, as if the lurid innuendos were his fault!

Sherlock returned her gaze with a cold silver one of his own, conveying a silent message to his fellow partner in law: "Hate to break it to you but you've got no one to blame but yourself."

Sherlock continued to make his way to the exit, blindly striding through the open double doorway. Blinded by his own personal demons and memories, he completely missed the incoming person, barreling into a strong chest. Murmuring his apologies, he struck out with one solid hand and gripped the other man's upper arm to steady him.

The next instant the quick-witted lawyer was struck dumb. His heart started to hammer in his chest, slamming into his ribs like a pounding wrecking ball.

And all because he knew.

Before the other man even straightened to his full height, before he'd looked Sherlock in the eye. He knew.

"Well, I was hoping to make a memorable entrance," John Watson said, with that distinctive, unconcerned tone of voice and intense expression Sherlock hadn't seen or heard in ten years. "Thanks, Sherlock."

John straightened the simple and elegant black tuxedo around his mature adult frame and raked his fingers through his hair. John had grown up nicely in the past ten years, his adolescent slender frame filling out well and muscular, his athletic poise and balance more apparent now than ever.

His face has lost that boyish look and had matured into a portrait of an attractive man. His eyes had stayed the most compelling feature on his face, the deep blue depths vivid and focused, driven by a hidden source of light.

Before Sherlock could gather his baffled wits and formulate some skillfully offhand comment, John lightly smirked at him and then moved away, tossing a breezy comment over his shoulder. "So, who's here, who's fat, who's bald, who's got children, and who's already divorced?"

Just like that.

As if they'd been nothing more than casual acquaintances all those years ago.

Sherlock's mouth had dropped open a few millimeters, surprise etched all over his face at John's relaxed attitude and his spontaneity. The John he knew ten years ago had barely uttered more than a few words at a time, preferring to keep his thoughts and comments to himself or to when they had been alone together. It seemed that the ten years since they had seen each other last had wrought more than just physical changes.

Sherlock watched as John set a direct course for the beverage counter, greeting former classmates and friends along the way. John's scent lingered in the air, the unique essence that belonged only to the man that now exuded an air of confidence and self worth.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he turned back around and ventured once more into the chaos and confusion that was his ten year secondary school reunion. Keeping the object of his attention firmly in view, he slowly made his way across the crowded ballroom, determination spurring him on.

John hadn't blown off the reunion after all.

* * *

 

After that rather spectacular entrance, John Watson studiously avoided looking directly at Sherlock. He didn't really need eyes to track the man's movements; his internal radar had instantly gone into overdrive the moment he'd recognized his former boyfriend. Even now, ten years later, he could sense Sherlock off to the side of the room, could feel the silver eyes that bore into his back even as the hot shot lawyer hobnobbed with some of their former classmates.

Many times John had given in to conventional daydreaming and imagined how the past ten years had treated his ex, dreamed of how he must look like in his late twenties. John's imagination had fallen extremely short of reality. Sherlock was striking. His face had matured, the angles had sharpened, the planes becoming more defined, and the eyes more intense.

Sherlock's once lanky body had filled out, the shoulders becoming wider than John had remembered. After the initial body slam that had acted as a greeting, John knew that the flesh underneath the expensive, custom tailored tux was all muscle; hard, unyielding muscle at that.

Recognizing the path of his wayward thoughts, John roughly shook his head to clear it of the fog that had descended. In an effort to distract his mind, John took a moment to peruse his surroundings.

So this was the London Heights Club, one of the many places he hadn't been deemed worthy enough to set foot in ten years ago. He took in the high, carved ceiling with its ornamental coving and glittering chandeliers. The two rather massive fireplaces were conspicuously filled with large floral arrangements, due to the fact that it was now mid-July. The bouquets matched the centerpieces on the linen-draped tables bud for bud. The open French doors that led to the flagstone veranda which was strung with tiny white lights, which in turn led to the terraced gardens that lay beyond. An elegant string quartet was seated in one corner, providing a mellow musical backdrop for the hum of conversation. The air was full of mouthed platitudes, greetings that dripped with fake sincerity, interspaced with the muted tinkle of silver and china.

The sights, the sounds, the smells of money.

John snorted under his breath, dismissing such ostentatious presentations as unnecessary. Even at his ripe old age of 28 years, he still preferred the atmosphere of hard work and true friends to this societal façade.

And yet, it was in this very place where  ** _IT_**  had happened. Well, not here precisely, but somewhere out there on that perfectly manicured golf course.

The bastard.

Having found nothing more than red wine, champagne, or brandy to drink at the bar, John had moved onto the food tables. As he nibbled on a small plate of mini shrimp burritos and other various finger foods, Molly Hooper bustled up to welcome him and fill him in on Kevin’s latest girlfriend and the history of Sarah’s breast implants.  John supposed it was comforting to know that some things never changed.

Even when they should.

John calmly looked at Molly and decided to be kind to the chatterbox. "Molly, you've got a big piece of spinach stuck between your teeth."

Molly's eyes shot wide open even as her hand flew up to her mouth. "Oh!" she cried, as she half turned away. A moment later, she flashed those dazzling white teeth at John, who gave her a casual thumbs up.

Molly, her hyperactive mind already moving on to the next subject suddenly exclaimed, "You forgot to pick up your name badge on the way in!" Molly patted down the pockets of her dress jacket until she produced the said piece of paper.

John raised one eyebrow and said, "I don't think anyone will have trouble recognizing me, Molly."

Molly placed a hand on her hip and returned John's look with a skeptical one of her own. "I don't, John Watson. In looks, you might not have changed too much, but you're a lot more friendlier now than you were back in secondary school. I mean, back then, you would hardly ever say more than a few words at one time, and never a complete conversation. You were so quiet ten years ago!"

John looked into Molly's eyes for a long moment before he averted his gaze and stared into his plate. "Things change," he said softly.

John didn't notice as Molly's gaze turned speculative and sly as she idly looked around the ballroom, zeroing in on her target. Recognizing that manipulative gleam in her eyes, John desperately looked around for an excuse to flee.

Zeroing in on a familiar and welcome face waving to him from a few dozen feet away, John made quick with his excuses. "Oh, there's Mike!"

"Mike?" Molly quickly looked around as her inquisitive blue gaze fell upon their target. Quickly turning her frown into a benign smile, she said in a noncommittal tone, "Oh, Dr. Stamford. Didn't he retire the year we graduated?"

Shaking his head at her greater-than-thou attitude, John muttered, "I'll talk to you later." With that obligatory platitude, he pushed through the crowd and hurled himself at Dr. Stamford in a one-armed embrace, while at the same time attempting to keep the contents of his plate from sliding to the floor. Mike returned his bear hug.

"John, it's so good to see you."

John allowed a genuine smile to turn the corners of his lips as he answered, "As it is to see you, Mike. How are the others?"

With a wave of his hand, Mike answered his favorite former pupil. "They're doing just fine. We're tinkering with some projects we never had time to before, keeping out of trouble. Might get back to guest speaking at the hospital."

John held his smile, truly glad that his favorite instructor was content and happy in his retirement.

Perhaps it had been John's real interest in the sciences and medicine as a whole that had first endeared him to Mike. Of course, he could have just been delighted that during secondary school John had constantly thumbed his nose at the high and mighty social crowd, not caring that his social status as the janitor's son labeled him as one of the drudges.

"So, John, my boy, are you still planning on staying at my place this week?"

"I hope that invitation is still open, Mike. I don't have any hotel reservations," came the answer.

The reunion committee, spearheaded by Molly Hooper, had planned a full week of activities. To give a week's span of time for old acquaintances to renew broken or dropped friendships and to relive the golden days of their youth. Mike had generously offered John a room in his sprawling home. A mansion that he had converted to a bed-and-breakfast inn when he retired from teaching.

Mike patted John on the shoulder and said, "Of course it is, John."

Mike’s gaze suddenly focused on something over John's shoulder. With a low murmur, he said under his breath, "Well, well, well..."

John's internal radar, whose signals he had been ignoring so far, suddenly slammed back into his mind full force. It sounded the alarm even before he saw who had come up behind him. Keeping his congenial smile firmly in place, he stayed his ground as Sherlock Holmes came up and greeted Mike as well.

A roar of thunder swept through his hearing as his body reacted to the nearness of Sherlock. However, he firmly clamped it down and stowed his reactions away, forcing himself to concentrate on Mike. His attention returned to his mentor just in time to hear Mike excuse himself, leaving Sherlock and John alone.

An uneasy silence fell between the two men, a quiet that neither one seemed inclined to be the first to break. Taking the coward's way out, John lifted a bamboo skewer from his plate and nibbled on the chunk of grilled vegetable. Sherlock stood watching him, silently sipping from his champagne flute.

No  _How's life been treating you?_

No  _Gee, I've missed you._

No  _Please forgive me, I was an idiot_. Sherlock just stood there waiting for the other man to say something. Unnatural and a bit strange, considering Sherlock's history for being able to make senseless chatter out of nothing.

But fine. If that was the way he wanted it. John could strike first.

He glanced around the sumptuously appointed room and made his first mark. "So. At last I get to see the inside of this place."

Sherlock's fingers suddenly tightened on the stem of his glass, sending a barrage of ripples through the bubbling liquid. John hid his smirk, even though he knew from that tiny reaction that his barb had found its target.

Ruthlessly he forged onwards, adding, "You must've been pleased they decided to hold this gathering here. Your old stomping grounds, so to speak."

He was goading Sherlock and enjoying every minute of it. Back in the innocent days of secondary school, John had been shy, unwilling to take the lead in many things, hiding behind his wall of silence and seemingly lack of concern for social rules. Although he pretended to not care about the whispers of others, he was always aware of the hidden barbs and attacks of the other students. It had only been Sherlock and his love, faith, and trust in their relationship that had enabled him to thumb his nose at society and continue on with their much criticized relationship.

A relationship that had ended horribly in flames, dousing his faith and shattering his heart.

Well, ten years had passed and John was a different person now. Confident in his own worth, he knew he was as good, if not better, than many of the people in this room. He would show them all that he, the lowly janitor's son, could outmatch and outwit them all.

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, then casually glanced around as if to ensure their conversation was private. "I suppose I should feel honored. You're actually talking to me."

John raised one eyebrow and drawled out, "Did you expect me to ignore you?"

One broad, elegantly tailored shoulder lifted negligently. "Why not? You managed to do it for a whole two months before graduation."

A venomous reply sprang to his lips, ready to lash out and sting his opponent, and it was all he could do to reign in back in. The impulse shocked him. He had managed to swallow his anguish all those years ago, when he was a timid insecure adolescent from the wrong side of the tracks. He'd held it all in then, the pain, the humiliation.

And to top it all off, everyone had known. He'd wrapped his hurt up hard and tight inside, banded with a bar of iron, but everyone had known and he'd had to see that knowledge in their smirking faces every day for two months. He'd had to hear it in their snickering sly whispers and amused gossip.

No. After what he'd endured back then, John wasn't about to make a fool of himself over Sherlock Holmes at this late date. Even if the man tempted him to lash out in self defense.

Forcing his face in a neutral mask, he voiced the usual, "How are your parents?"

Sherlock plucked a half-eaten mini burrito off of John's plate and popped it into his mouth. The audacious act irked him, with its implied intimacy. Sherlock had no right to imply any such thing. He gave up that right more than ten years ago. With a snort of disgust, John handed the half full plate to a passing waiter.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder again and said, "They're the same as you might remember. If anything, a little more set in their ways, but that's to be expected." He appeared bored by the subject, as he often was when discussing his socialite parents.

John held his breath for one moment before giving into temptation. "Tell them the janitor's son says hi."

Sherlock's gaze snapped to his face. For an unguarded moment, he thought he saw the old Sherlock, the Sherlock he'd known. "John -"

"You two getting reacquainted?" Rhonda materialized at their side, along with a rotund man John didn't recognize until he glanced at his name tag. He tried not to gape.  _'Catcher' Hatcher?_  It couldn't be!

He caught Sherlock's eye and they shared a silent exchange. Just like old times. However, the instant rapport fled as soon as Alexi opened his mouth.

"Hey Sherlock, I thought you were headed out to the golf course. Guess you changed your mind since I don't see any grass stains on that nice tux."

Sherlock stiffened and glanced at John.

"Maybe he's looking for the right partner," Kevin said, with a smarmy grin, as he sidled up to them. "One who knows how to keep a tight grip on the shaft."

Sherlock's eyes began to glitter dangerously. His gaze kept flicking from Kevin and Alexi to John. John suddenly realized that Sherlock was concerned for his sake. No doubt he recalled how easily intimidated he used to be and didn't want him publicly humiliated.

The gallant gesture was not lost on him, although it was long overdue. If he'd had John's welfare in mind all those years ago, these two blowhards wouldn't have anything to joke about now.

Well, it was time to take these idiots on a little ride and show them that John Watson cowed before no man.

"So, you guys are into golf?" John asked, with wide-eyed innocence.

The three other men stared at him, mute. Rhonda merely raised an eyebrow but said nothing, content to simply watch.

"Because I don't know much about the game myself, but I'm interested in learning," he continued, staring down at Kevin, who happened to be half a head shorter. He spoke on, as if the three men weren't giving him the oddest looks. "Like for instance, I thought you were supposed to hold the club by the grip, not the shaft."

Kevin blinked for a few moments before he finally mumbled, "Uh, yeah, that's right."

He then turned on Alexi. "My friend Bill plays a lot of golf, but I don't recall him ever coming back with any grass stains. Maybe he’s not doing it right?"

Alexi gave an imploring look to the other two men, but Sherlock continued to sip his champagne and Kevin backed up a step. Alexi flinched as John sidled closer to him. He was probably dreading the next words out of his mouth.

His salvation came as he spotted a couple of old friends from across the room. In a rush of words that smacked of relief and desperation, Alexi mumbled, "Oh, isn't that Margot? I've gotta go say hi."

Kevin quickly jumped in with, "Me, too."

"Don't stay away too long," John told their retreating backs. "I have more questions about golf."

He watched them hightail it across the room before turning back to Sherlock, who raised his glass in a silent salute. The small gesture sparked a hidden warmth in his chest, even as he chided himself for caring.

Someone behind John started clapping. He turned around and found himself face to face with a man he would have recognized from anywhere. His lips curved up in another sincere smile as he nodded his head and greeted, "Hello Greg."

"Bravo, John. Though I was kind of looking forward to seeing Sherlock lay into those two."

The three men shared a lighthearted chuckle, just like in the old days.

John sobered and said in a sincere tone, "I heard about Kelly. I'm really sorry."

Sherlock echoed the sentiment. Greg had married his secondary school sweetheart, Kelly, shortly after graduation. Less than two years later, she'd died of a brain tumor, after a long and arduous battle. John noticed that Greg no longer wore a wedding ring, so apparently he hadn't remarried.

A streak of sorrow darted through Greg's dark, fathomless eyes before it quickly faded. "It was a long time ago. Eight years. I've been through a lot of changes since then. Are you going to be around this week?" he asked, looking directly at John.

"Aa. I'm staying with Dr. Stamford."

Greg's smile radiated genuine delight. John was slightly stunned by the amount of emotion that showed on Greg's face, considering back in secondary school the only one who could get the other to show any emotion was Kelly. "As am I. It'll be great to get caught up."

Greg's attention was suddenly caught by another classmate and he excused himself from the other two men before heading towards the waiting classmate.

John and Sherlock watched him walk off, casually greeting old friends. Sherlock took another sip from his champagne flute before murmuring, "So he's staying at Mike's, too. You'll have all week to get caught up."

"Yes. I'm looking forward to it."

"Or should I say,  _we'll_  all have a week to get caught up."

John froze before he turned and stared at him, certain he must have misheard.

No. No, Mike wouldn't do that to him. He knew what John had gone through at the end of the year, knew what Sherlock had done, how devastated he’d been. True, Sherlock had been as close to Mike and the others as he had, but surely he wouldn't have invited them both to share the house this week?

Slowly, John said, "Tell me I heard you wrong."

Sherlock just smiled and drained his champagne flute.


	2. Confrontation

  
John pulled himself through the chlorine infused waters of Mike's outdoor pool, his tone torso making smooth passes through the liquid. As his body fell into the hypnotizing rhythm of his freestyle stroke, his mind wandered through the events of the previous night.

After Sherlock's rather startling statement last night, John had immediately gone off to seek Mike out, to demand his previous teacher either refute or confirm his suspicions. Much to John's dismay and alarm, the older man had merely smiled his rather startling toothy grin and nodded enthusiastically, while at the same time jabbering on about 'getting reacquainted' with the old crowd.

John could feel a nerve ticking away in his forehead like a bomb.

After a few minutes of quiet ranting to himself, the young man had finally calmed down and accepted the inevitable. It was obvious there was nothing he could do to alter the current situation since it wasn't his house that Sherlock had been invited to stay in.

Besides, he was now a grown adult, fully aware of his own feelings and self worth. He didn't need to hide from the mistakes of his past anymore. He could get through this next week, seeing old friends and foes, even his old ex. He would laugh and joke and let bygones be bygones and act as if nothing that had happened in his past still had any power over him.

Or so he kept telling himself.

Deep down John knew better.

Even though ten years had passed since the graduation from secondary school and fleeing from the old bitterness that lingered, he was still angry. Perhaps he had never fully let go of the past because he had never had closure. He had spent the last two embarrassing months of his final year avoiding everyone and their awful smirks of knowledge and pity. Retreating like a wounded cat he had slinked in the shadows content to lick and nurse his wounds privately without confiding in anyone, even his parents.

As far as his parents had known, everything had been perfectly fine. Dr. Stamford was the only person he had confided his problems and heartache to, the only one he trusted to not make a scene or become indignant on his behalf. Mike had been behind him, quietly giving him the courage to complete his last few weeks at school. Mike had also advised him to talk to Sherlock before graduation scattered them like leaves from each other, but it was advice that John had steadfastly ignored.

Pride was a horrible thing.

And then it had been too late. After graduation, John had taken the opportunity handed to him and had fled the country. There, among others who saw him for him and not the status of his parents, he had quietly grown and matured, gaining confidence that had been sorely lacking throughout his young years.

He had quickly made a name for himself and for once he had been the one people had coveted introductions to. He had been the one who had invitations thrown at him and who people begged to grace their parties. Among the mouthed platitudes and fake sincerity he had even managed to find some genuine friends.

Oh, he had had friends in secondary school, but they usually had been Sherlock's friends first and his second. For the first time in his life, people were seeing only him and were befriending him because of who he was, not who he knew or dated. It had done wonders for his self confidence, allowing him to see himself as a worthy human being, an equal, if not a superior, to Sherlock and all the other pompous high breeds of school.

So yes, he was just as good as any of the other people who had come back for the reunion, and he could handle one week with them. He would confront old demons and win, triumphing over the last lingering remains of his former self. And at the end of the week, he would be able to say goodbye again with no further regrets.

By this time in his speculation, John had already transgressed the length of the Olympic sized pool several times and was nearing the deep end again. However, instead of tucking into a tight racing turn and heading back to the shallow end, he came to a halt, swiping a hand through his wet hair, and began to tread water. Something in his nerve endings had begun to tingle, placing his internal radar on red alert.

His gaze automatically homed in on the redwood deck, only to find it deserted.

"I forgot what a good swimmer you are," Sherlock said, from directly behind him.

John whipped around in the water as fast as he could and then squinted up at the other man. Sherlock was no more than an indistinct blur looming over him, backlit by the brilliant sunshine of the summer day. In comparison, John felt exposed and vulnerable.

To dispel this uncomfortable feeling, he said shortly, "I swim every day."

Genuinely curious, Sherlock asked, "Still have a membership at a local swim club?"

John's eyes narrowed as he said blandly, "I have a pool."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose and for a brief flash of time John felt true annoyance. Obviously Sherlock still assumed he mopped hospital floors for a living. Did his former boyfriend have such a low opinion of John's skills?

Face set in a blank expression, John leaned into a back float and sculled away from Sherlock. In an offhand tone of voice he asked, "You just going to stand there watching, or are you coming in?"

"I'm not wearing trunks," came the reply.

John snorted and muttered, "Since when did that stop you before?"

"Excuse me?"

John merely began to tread water again and looked up into Sherlock's face. With a quick movement, he glanced towards the house and then back to his unwanted companion. "Nobody's looking," he said nonchalantly.

Sherlock just stood there. Unable to discern his expression, John added, "Maybe it's not such a good idea, after all.  ** _Irene_**  could come out any minute."

"Meaning what?"

Obviously Sherlock hadn't missed the extra emphasis that John had placed on that so hated name.

Raising one eyebrow, John said, "Meaning she might think there's more going on here than an innocent skinny-dipping."

Sherlock crossed his arms and acidly replied, "And why, precisely, should I care what Irene thinks?"

John lazily began to float towards the shallow end of the pool, not commenting until he reached an area where the water came up to his waist. As he stood on the bottom of the pool, he looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and taunted, "So come on then. The water's perfect."

Sherlock stalked by John's side on the wood deck, demanding an answer. "I want to know why you think something like that would bother Irene? And why, even if it did, do you imagine I would care?"

John smiled and gave a small shrug that bordered on being coy. "Christ, you're such a lawyer." In a slightly more sarcastic tone of voice, he added, "Nice to know Daddy's tuition money wasn't wasted."

Irritation flashed in John's eyes even as he attempted to act like nothing was bothering him. He was annoyed that Sherlock obviously wanted him to believe that nothing was going on between him and Irene. Another a-little-too-late attempt to spare John's feelings, most likely. However, the evidence that had amounted in John's mind did anything but allow him to believe in Sherlock's actions.

After all, the two of them had worked side by side for the past number of years after earning their degrees from their fathers' alma mater. Their mutual attraction, while just a rumor in secondary school, was anything but a secret. And, too, most men harbored a special fondness for their first lover, or so it was rumored.

Neither Sherlock nor Irene had ever married, despite manipulation and desire on their parents' sides for the union. The desire for such a match from the illustrious sires of the Adler and Holmes lineage was something that even John had sensed back in secondary school and he knew time had probably only strengthened the wish. Since neither one of them was married, they'd probably had some kind of on-again, off-again relationship going for the past ten years. Especially considering what had happened in those last few months of secondary school.

John shook his head to clear his thoughts and focused in on what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock was sighing like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and he complained, "I don't remember you being this much of a pain in the arse in secondary school."

Biting back an acidic reply that would have brought forth private memories better left buried, John blurted out the first thing to come to mind. "Are you sure? There must have been some reason you betrayed me."

 _Fuck_. As he realized what he had said, John silently bit his tongue and looked away. He hadn't meant to be the one to broach the subject, but it was too late to take it back. Sherlock, on the other hand, had gone very still and very silent, his posture rigid and slightly defensive. The seconds ticked by without any action from either one of them. All around them, life on Earth continued to be, but the two major players in this small drama had been brought to a standstill.

Finally, Sherlock broke the ice.

Quietly, he murmured, "I thought you weren't interested in reasons."

John flinched the tiniest bit, it would have gone unnoticed had Sherlock not been watching him so intently. The other man was trying to quell the sudden anger and hurt that had resurfaced, despite his earlier resolve to bury it completely. It shouldn't still have hurt like this, not ten years later. After all, what they had back in secondary school had been just puppy love, right? His insides shouldn't still be twisting at the mere possibility of finally discussing the betrayal.

John heard movement and turned his head to see Sherlock walk around the end of the pool, stopping at the point closest to him. He squatted on the deck, forearms on his thighs. The sun was no longer behind him, so John could see Sherlock's every feature.

Sherlock's gray eyes, one of the two features which had always fascinated John, were focused and sharp, intent on capturing and holding John's blue. In a quiet voice he asked, "Why didn't you ever let me explain, John? Why did you refuse to listen?"

John took a deep breath, trying to gather his waning courage. It was silly. He, who had been fearless in secondary school and had taken other students' taunts and thrown them back at them, was now captured in the typical reactions of fear. A tightness had clutched his throat, his eyes burning with suppressed emotions. However, for ten years he had kept his words bottled up inside, and now that they had a venue for escape, there was no stopping them.

"You told me you loved me. I was going to be your first and you mine. We waited, Sherlock, and I used to think how right it was going to be when we finally did give ourselves to each other."

"So did I, John-"

John was beyond listening to Sherlock, caught up in the hurt and betrayal of the past. "I had never trusted anyone until you came along, breaking down all the barriers and defenses I erected against you. I tried for so long to keep you out of my heart, but you wouldn't stay away. Finally, I took a chance and I thought that I could trust you. And then you betrayed me."

John's fists were clenched tightly into fists at this point as more and more memories crashed through his mind. The floodgates had been opened and there was no closing them back.

"And the worst part was... I had to hear about it in school, from Molly, and Sarah, and... and everyone. Do you know they tripped over themselves, wanting to be the one to tell me? They were so eager to shatter my little bubble of happiness and throw me back into my place, the drudges where I belonged. Do you have any idea what that was like?"

John remembered how the news had spread through the school like wildfire. Traversing like light speed, it seemed that everyone had known about it before John. The only way possible would have been if Sherlock had gone bragging about his conquest to everyone he knew. John was so caught up in his own hurt that he missed the look of misery that had come over Sherlock's face.

He continued on in a rush, his eyes glittering and his tone accusing. "You had no trouble necking with me in a dark theater, or making out as much as I would allow in your car at the pond, but God forbid your father's snooty colleagues should find out what a low-class person you were dating, much less a low-class bloke! I never even knew about that reception the firm was holding at the country club. You never told me."

"I didn't want you hurt."

John sneered as he shot back with, "You didn't want to be seen with the  _janitor's son_! You were too ashamed! So you took Irene instead. You took her to the reception and then took her out on that damn golf course and you fucked her there."

John was trembling with fury and humiliation at this point, his pain as sharp as if this had happened yesterday. His dark blue gaze glittered dangerously, attempting to pin Sherlock's down and dare him to deny any of this. However, Sherlock's head was angled downwards, his eyes closed in sorrow.

In a tight voice, Sherlock asked, "Why didn't you ever tell me this in school? Before graduation?"

John snorted even as he diverted his own gaze. In a softer tone, one that didn't brook so much anger and hurt, he said, "Do you really think I could? You know what I was like when I was younger, Sherlock. I would hardly say much, I always kept my thoughts and feelings to myself. It was easier that way, I couldn't be hurt by all the gossip and rumors flying around my head. If I had ever confronted you about this back then, I would probably have given you a black eye and a bloody nose before I ever talked with you."

Sherlock finally raised his face and tried to capture John's attention. "I never tried to excuse what I did, I just wanted to explain. I still do."

John was silent for a moment before he posed a question. "Let me ask you one thing. If I'd done what you did, if I had sneaked around behind your back and met some other girl, or guy, if I'd had sex with her or him after everything you and I had meant to each other, promised each other... would  ** _you_**  have been interested in explanations?"

Sherlock's features were rigid, his jaw clenched tightly even as a nerve began to tick. Finally, he said, "No."

The ache in John's chest was not assuaged even with the twinge of satisfaction that Sherlock's forced confession brought to him. He had, out of necessity, scratched open an old wound that had never healed and now it was open and raw.

Needing a few moments to compose himself, John turned and swam the length of the pool. As he pulled himself through the crystal clear water, his mind turned and toiled. After that little tête-à-tête, he now knew the answer to his earlier musings.

There was no way he was staying in this house with Sherlock Holmes for a week.

**No way in hell.**

* * *

John's eyes narrowed in silent warning as he once again caught Sherlock staring at him through the hazy night air. The small group of old classmates that had been invited to stay at Mike’s charming estate was enjoying the fruits of the teacher’s culinary labors. A lavish cookout, complete with a mouth-watering beef brisket being slowly smoked over glowing chunks of hickory in a cylindrical water smoker.

Despite John's stout self-declaration during his earlier exercise in the pool, he had yet to make good on his decision. Every time he had attempted to take the issue up with Mike, something had come along to distract the other, whether it be his fellow teacher or another temporary reunion resident. John was certain fate was conspiring against him and decided to drop the issue. After all, it was only for a week, right? After that, mister hotshot lawyer in daddy's firm would return to his world and John would return to his. And if they were lucky, they wouldn't have to deal with each other for another fifteen years.

As John took another sip from his glass of homemade lemonade he allowed his eyes to roam freely over the small gathering of old classmates.

Sherlock was standing next Molly and her gal pals, looking bored out of his mind. From the animated way that Molly was waving her arms and hands around, it was perfectly clear who was dominating the conversation.

Not too far from where the five were standing, other guests of Mike's were attempting to organize an impromptu game of volleyball. Most of the adults gathered around the net were people that John had rarely ever hung around with, let alone talked to during secondary school.

Greg was chatting amiably with two old chums that had arrived earlier that afternoon, totally foregoing the reunion banquet of the previous evening.

He snuck a glare at Sherlock. The entire time he and Sherlock had dated, the elder Holmes’ had done everything in their power to break them up. Especially Edward Holmes, who'd actively lobbied for a union between his son and Irene Adler, the daughter of his law partner. Sherlock's father had envisioned the marriage as some sort of glorious dynastic merger.

And John had threatened that dream, in more ways than one.

Of course, Sherlock's relationship with John had caused the two aristocrats no end of grief. John wasn't 'suitable'. He wasn't from their lofty socioeconomic stratum, his family name was nothing and worthless in their aristocratic circles. And added to all of this was the fact that John was another boy. But, that Sherlock had defied his parents and refused to give John up had reinforced John's romantically naive assumption that theirs was a meeting of soul mates, a match destined to last a lifetime.

John nearly snorted into his glass of lemonade. A lifetime that didn't even outlast the oh-so-golden days of being a teenager.

Sherlock had been born into an affluent life-style completely alien to John: the money, the servants, the lavish trips to France, the gated estate set on lavish and lush grounds. Sherlock had exhibited a confidence and sense of entitlement that had made him seem older, more sophisticated, than his years. Born into a life full of privilege, Sherlock had viewed the world as his oyster and everything was his for the taking.

John, on the other hand, had lived in a run-down, rented shack on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. His father worked as a janitor in the school system until two years ago, when severe back problems had finally forced him out on disability. His mother had quit her job as a nursing home aide and they'd retired to Sussex Downs, with some financial assistance from John. After all, they had taken care of him for the first 20 or so years of his life. It was the least he could do to return the care.

He and Sherlock were from different worlds, but it hadn't mattered because they'd been young and in love. And of course, when you're young and in love, you can make anything happen, as long as you're together.

At least, that was what they'd told each other. Until the moment of truth when Sherlock had taken Irene out on that golf course, and John had learned that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much love he had to give, he's always be 'the janitor's son'. It had hurt when he had overheard Sherlock's parents refer to him as such in their snide tones. Too tawdry, too lowbrow, too déclassé to ever fit into the Holmes's rarefied world.

The yawning emptiness that had been left in the wake of the betrayal had taken a long time to heal, but eventually it had and John had moved on. Nevertheless, he often found himself wondering how different his life would have been, if only...

If only Sherlock had shown more moral fiber. If only he'd been the kind of person Sherlock'd wanted and needed. So many ifs.

The sound of Irene Adler's cultured, sultry voice yanked John out of his reverie. The woman had finally deigned to make an appearance, gracing the other guests with her august presence like a queen with her court. John snorted into his glass again, shaking his head.

Irene wore an elegant black one-piece with green accents and a matching chiffon pareo that was tied around her slender hips. Everything about her was perfectly formed and petite, from her slim thighs to her tiny feet to her impossibly narrow waist.

Her dark hair was cut in a short, yet feminine style, feathery around the face and nape and very reminiscent of her hairdo in secondary school. With a bare minimum of makeup on her face and an impeccable French manicure adorning her nails, Irene Adler was as sleek and polished as a strand of pearls.

John felt his stomach roll and his hackles rise as he watched Irene glide over to where Sherlock was standing and stake her place by his side, inviting herself into the conversation. Even if he had resolved himself to ignoring his former boyfriend, it still rankled him that he was going to have to watch the two of them interact with each other for an entire week.

Life wasn't fair.

But then again, when had life ever been fair?

Having finished his glass of lemonade, John set the empty glass down on a table and resolutely headed over to the volleyball net. Perhaps a good game would be just the thing to take his mind off of the confusing subjects of his past.

* * *

Using his thirst as a method of escape, Sherlock managed to untangle himself from Molly and Irene's clutches, leaving the two women to gossip among themselves. Greg Lestrade had made his escape somewhat earlier, having made no qualms about his boredom, and had stalked off towards the game of volleyball. Sherlock liked Greg. He always had. The man had so much more tact than anyone else in the school and he had always supported Sherlock in his relationship with John.

He had also been the first one to hit Sherlock on the back of the head when that relationship had been torn apart with misunderstandings and betrayal.

Grabbing a beer from the cooler, Sherlock made his way around the pool to where the impromptu game of volleyball was finishing up. As he took a refreshing swig of the malt brew, he took the time to appreciate the sight before him.

John, in center forward position, appeared absorbed in the game, passing the ball and returning volleys with a joyous enthusiasm that made him seem eighteen again. He was wearing a blue tank top and a pair of simple black shorts. The shortage of cloth covering allowed John's well formed arms and muscular legs to be ogled and appreciated by any who cared to do so. Fortunately for Sherlock's rather jealous nature, it didn't appear anyone else was doing too much eyeing.

Seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's presence on the sidelines, John leaped to spike the ball over the net, successfully firing it into the dirt at his opponents' feet to score the winning point. He shared a triumphant hoot and a spontaneous hug with Greg, who was playing left forward.

"Watson's got the moves!" Greg hollered, giving him a congratulatory whack on the rump.

Most of the players, including John, wandered off the grassy court as a handful of diehards tried to drum up interest in another game. John was flushed, breathing hard, and Sherlock's first thought was that this was how he must look after sex.

 _*No, not quite,*_  he decided.  _*His smile would be a tad dreamier, his hair a bit more mussed, his blue eyes slumberous.*_

 _*But you'll never know for sure,*_  a snide little voice in his mind taunted.

Succumbing to impulse, Sherlock caught John's eye and wagged his frosty beer bottle invitingly. John's steps slowed, his expression turning wary as he approached Sherlock. Sherlock held out his beer to the other man, knowing he had to be thirsty, silently daring him to turn it down. John stared at the bottle, three-fourths full, and finally took it from him.

As Sherlock watched him take a long swallow, the muscles in his throat rippling invitingly, the lawyer felt he'd achieved a small victory. There had been a time when he and John had shared everything, from bottles of black-cherry soda to the Chinese they had ordered every Friday night without fail.

John handed him his beer back, and Sherlock took a sip as he placed his hand on John's back to steer the other away from the volleyball site. John's body stiffened, prompting Sherlock to let his hand linger a few more seconds. After all, if Greg Lestrade could hug him and give him a friendly slap on the bottom, than Sherlock could damn well touch his back.

John looked over his shoulder at the tables that had been set up for the cookout and said, "We should be helping Molly."

Sherlock turned to gaze for a moment where she had taken charge of activities and was ordering people around to perform various duties. He said dryly, "Yeah, and you sound real enthusiastic about that. Don't worry. Molly’s never had a problem recruiting 'volunteers'. You didn't come to this reunion to be at her beck and call."

Sherlock took one last swig of his beer before he added, "Why  ** _did_**  you come to this reunion?"

John shrugged. "Probably for the same reason you did, I suppose."

 _*I wouldn't be that lucky,*_  Sherlock thought morosely.

John added to his statement, confirming Sherlock's thought. "To see the old gang and get caught up."

"Or to let everyone see you no longer work cleaning up hospital labs?"

John shot him a hard look, his eyes flinty and piercing. "You think I came here to brag about my accomplishments?"

Sherlock shrugged and said, "Why not? It's why most of these people came back here. To rub everyone else's nose in their success. Isn't that what reunions are really for?"

In a deadpanned voice, John said, "I don't need to prove anything to anyone."

"Maybe not," Sherlock continued, "but I don't mind telling you, I'm impressed."

John's left eyebrow arched upwards as he shot Sherlock a questioning look. Obviously he was puzzled as to what exactly Sherlock was referring to.

Sherlock gave John a genuine smile as he said, "I know all about your medical practice, John. I'm very impressed with the work your practice has been doing. Never knew you had it in you."

"I know." John's tone was flat and resigned.

Sherlock winced and studied John's profile, silently urging him to look up. When John continued to gaze down, he said, "I can't get anything right, can I?"

"It shouldn't matter, Sherlock. Not anymore. Not after everything else."

Sherlock struggled with himself, furiously attempting to quell the urge to enfold John in his arms. He wanted to comfort the other, to soothe him, to reach out and to touch him so badly he practically ached with need. Instead, knowing John would bolt like a rabbit, he simply asked, "What shouldn't matter?"

John turned to look at Sherlock and he said, "I thought we knew each other so well back then. It was like we could read each other's mind."

Sherlock swallowed and averred, "I remember."

John gave a short, nasal chuckle as he shook his head with regret and added, "But in the end, it turned out we never did know each other at all."

"John, I-"

John raised his face to stare Sherlock directly in the eye. His gaze was cool with an implacability that was a faint echo of his secondary school glare. A small frown was on his lips as he asked, "Did you think you were the only one with aspirations?"

Sherlock's first gut impulse was to spout another hasty denial, but he knew deep down that such an action would get him nowhere. It was high time he was truthful to his former boyfriend, and to himself.

"Yes. I guess I did. I was young and stupid. And I was incredibly arrogant."

John's eyebrow quirked again, his only outward indication that Sherlock's candid response threw him slightly off balance. "Imagine that," he murmured, "an arrogant eighteen year old."

On a roll, Sherlock continued his little confession. "As far as I was concerned, the future was this bright wonderful place where I would work hard and just insert myself into this great life I had planned out for myself. If I had ever consciously thought about your future, well, I guess I saw it as an extension of my own. I knew you had all these big dreams, but that was what they were to me. My only excuse for that is because I guess I always assumed we'd be together."

Both of John's eyebrows were raised now as he said in a dry voice, "And I would be eternally grateful that you included me in your life, right? That I would always be content to be part of your team?"

"Like I said, young and stupid."

"And arrogant."

"I believe we've established that."

John continued to look at Sherlock for another few moments before he said quietly, "Thank you for your honesty, Sherlock."

The two men stood quietly together, lost in their own individual memories of the past, oblivious to those around them. John was the first to escape from his musings, his gaze focusing on the little group of women that Sherlock had escaped from earlier.

"Why have you never married?"

John's question seemed to take Sherlock aback as a brief look of shock overcame the other's face. The question was personal, and frankly, Sherlock didn't think John cared anymore. At this point in the reunion, Sherlock didn't really want to answer such a question, not until he was sure of John's feelings or lack thereof, so he tried to avoid it by asking one of his own.

"Why haven't you?"

John gave a brief laugh as he said, "Objection, Your Honor. Witness is evading the question."

Sherlock playfully pouted and said, "And here I was hoping to get away from the courtroom for a week." Yet even with the playful banter, he was still reluctant to answer the question.

Luckily, John had no such reservations and continued to hound him. "After all, wasn't THAT part of the grand master plan? A partnership, complete with a sprawling mansion somewhere in the countryside? An ornamental wife, with two point three kids, and a family dog?"

Sherlock shrugged and finally gave a noncommittal answer. "I never met the right woman. And the sprawling mansion is a cluttered flat."

"Really?"

The somewhat skeptic tone of John's voice caused Sherlock to glance up and focus his own gaze in the same direction as John's. Noting that John was staring in the same area as Irene was standing, Sherlock's mind raced with possible distractions. John had finally started to open up and was talking to him again. He didn't want to ruin it by focusing his attention on a sore subject such as Irene.

"So, is there anyone special in your life at the moment?"

"Not at the moment."

Sherlock felt a surge of unrealistic hope at that statement. He also felt a tiny glimmer of satisfaction. A glimmer that lasted until John added, "I almost got married three years ago."

Sherlock felt his throat closing up even as a tiny stab of panic struck him in the chest. Forcing himself to maintain his calm demeanor, he asked, "What happened?"

"I caught her cheating on me."

Sherlock swiftly turned his head to look at John, studying his face for some hint of a joke. However, there was none to be found.

John caught his search out of the corner of his eye and he shrugged. "Maybe it's me."

That simple statement destroyed all of Sherlock's inhibitions and he grabbed John by the shoulders, turning them both to face each other squarely. Fiercely, he said, "It isn't you. Don't ever think that."

John stared at him, and in his eyes he read the crushing self-doubt John had kept carefully hidden from the world. The deep blue eyes were filled with a deep sorrow, a bruising pain. He had helped to put that self doubt there, and the knowledge caused shame to spike through Sherlock's mind and heart. His gut wrenched and was shredded by the hurt that emanated from those eyes. He released one of John's shoulders to reach up and cup his chin, but his action broke the fleeting connection holding John still.

With a slight twist and wrench, John broke free of Sherlock's grip and his eyes became shielded once more. The moment of heart to heart conversation was over, the cold impassivity back in place. "I told you, you don't know me. You never did."

 _*Then let's start over,*_  Sherlock's mind screamed, urging him to say the words. However, before he could answer, John had turned sharply on his heel, striding swiftly away from Sherlock towards the other reunion guests.


	3. The Lawyer's Daughter and The Janitor's Son

John swallowed a yawn as the rangy tour guide launched into another diatribe about the cultivation of the vineyard's grapes. The small group of adults was moving slowly through the building, learning about the workings of the premiere winery. Not exactly something thrilling to the young doctor, but it had been a planned activity and he had promised to go along on the activities, no matter how boring some of them were.

The group was led into the cellar where the wine was properly aged. The cool, windowless space held an agreeable, sweet-musty aroma that was typical of its kind. John rolled his eyes as the guide expounded on the kinds of wood used for the barrels the wine was aged in, as well as the length of time various wines were allowed to age.

What John couldn't believe was the fact that some of his fellow classmates were actually interested in this stuff. Wine was wine to John. _*Though,*_  he thought with a touch of surly sarcasm,  _*I suppose that if you did nothing all day but choose what type of wine to serve at a party, then this kind of thing would be right up your alley.*_

John caught the ringing of a phone, and turned to see Irene fish a mobile phone out of her shoulder bag. Though the dark-haired woman turned her back and kept her voice low, John could clearly hear her side of the conversation.

"You're missing a lovely morning, Sherlock. We've already been to two of the best wineries."

At this, John had to roll his eyes again. He should have known that this type of activity would be right along Irene's alley.

"If you'd brought those files out with you on Saturday, you wouldn't have had to go back for them. You know what they say - the memory's the first thing to go." After a moment, Irene gave a high, trilled laugh and amended, "Okay, the second thing."

A flash of irritation swept through John as he listened to Irene banter over the phone with Sherlock.  _*Work colleagues only, right,*_  he snorted, thinking. John found that hard to believe. Even harder to believe was that he was feeling jealousy at the ease that Irene spoke with his former boyfriend. An ease that he himself used to have, though no longer.

At the very least, Sherlock and Irene must have remained close friends, being comrades in arm and all. They had attended university and law school together, before joining the family firm. They must also work closely together on cases, not to mention that they probably spent a lot of time outside of work together too. Especially since their fathers were law partners and best mates.

"Okay Sherlock, floor it and join us at the restaurant. Our reservation is at 12:30. See you there."

John bristled at knowing that Sherlock would be rejoining the group for lunch. Resolving to ignore the sudden stab of pleasure in knowing that Sherlock would be coming back, he focused in on the tour guide. The group was entering the last stage of the winery tour, the tasting. The guide announced that there were six wines for sampling and began to pour the first one.

John took a tiny sip from his glass and instantly regretted it. The white was dreadful and John was immensely grateful for the basket of bland crackers on the bar. As he munched on one, his gaze caught Greg's and smirked at the man's expression of torture.

Setting his glass far from him, John returned his attention to the guide who was explaining that wine was meant to be served with food rather than on its own, because of how it reacts with the carbohydrates in food. John was listening with half an ear when he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder.

He turned around to see Irene standing behind him, beaming into his face. He quelled an urge to grind his teeth. The diminutive woman had been doing that all morning, catching his eye and smiling at him like they were the best of friends.

Irene grinned and said, "I've been waiting for a chance to chat with you. To get caught up."

As John fumbled for any excuse to the contrary, Irene merely grabbed his arm, urging him away from the rest of the group. She was continued on about tiny things, jabbering like they were two mates. It irked John, to say the least.

"You know, I absolutely  _love_  this look on you, John. The jumper is so... relaxed looking!"

John worked his jaw but said nothing in response.

A muscle near Irene's eye twitched, even as her smile stretched wider. "You're just... the same talkative John, aren't you?" she gushed. She continued on, completely unaware of the rigidity in John's stance.

"I can't tell you how many times I've meant to pick up the phone and give you a ring, but, well, you know how it is. Life just happens and before you know it, ten years just go by!"

John plastered a pleasant expression on his face, keeping his voice light and friendly as he retorted with, "Well, actually Irene, I haven't thought about calling you at all. Not even once."

Irene gave a strained chuckle that died a pathetic death. Swallowing her resolve, she continued with, "Well, there, you see? We all get so caught up with work. Speaking of which," she pounced, "I heard about your medical practice." Irene gave John a sly look and a playful shove. "Who'd have thought that John had it in him?"

John's eyes narrowed dangerously as he curtly replied, "No one, it would seem."

Irene continued on, completely ignoring the danger signs emanating from John. "From janitor to doctor to owner of a medical practice! And when I found out how much you were making well, I nearly collapsed in shock when I heard the news."

"Really? What a pity," John drawled out in a sarcastic tone.

John shrugged and added in a more normal tone, "I'm not so easily surprised like that. For example, it doesn't shock me at all that you lost no time in finding out how much my practice makes."

Irene beamed and said, "I knew you wouldn't mind!" She spread her hands out in an appealing gesture and said, "Now, I'm going to ask you straight out, and feel free to tell me to go to hell. But, are you happy with your current legal representation, John?"

"Irene, go to hell," he deadpanned.

Irene launched into her sales pitch, without bothering to even react to John's blunt reply. "Because I'll be honest with you, and this is advice I'd give my own mother. The firm you're currently with - Darlian and Dermail - is a fine one. Darlian is a really smart lawyer -"

John interrupted with a droll, "Yes, he's done very well for me."

" - but every firm has its weak points. And I can tell you this confidentially, their track record with companies that are growing as fast as yours -"

John had had enough and he said bluntly, "Irene, please tell me you're not trying to get me to switch my business to your firm."

Irene smiled indulgently at John, as if she knew he wouldn't understand. "I've seen it before, John. Companies take off unexpectedly and an inexperienced entrepreneur suddenly finds himself struggling to cope with rapid expansion, site acquisition, tax repercussions, and all kinds of liability... It's all too easy to rely upon the law firm to make all your decisions. However, at Holmes Adler we -"

John abruptly cut her off, making a time-out sign with his hands. His blood was boiling by this point and he couldn't believe the woman's audacity.

"Okay, as for my 'unexpected' success. Let me share something with you, Irene. My first rule of business is that if success comes as a surprise, you don't have the right to it. Being a business is not something you can do willy-nilly and hope that it works. It takes planning and strategies and commitment."

"Well, there's no question of that."

"Wait a sec, I'm not finished. As for inexperienced little me struggling to cope with the 'suddenness' of it all - I've worked for ten years to get where I am now. Days, nights, weekends, holidays, the works."

"Oh, I know how hard you must have worked -"

A sudden thought occurred to John, one that made his stomach roll. "Did you discuss this with Sherlock?"

"Well, naturally we talked it over. Bringing new businesses into the firm is a very high priority for us."

Anger rose quickly in John and this time he fanned the flames. Back at the house Sherlock had seemed so sincere and endearing, truly wishing to smooth over the past and begin a new friendship based on equal terms! But now the true reason behind his actions was being revealed. He'd been actively wooing a prospective client! No doubt he and Irene had strategized and discussed what it would take to win his trust and get him to switch firms.

In a deadly cold voice, backed by his white-hot fury, John moved closer to Irene and said, "Listen carefully, because I don't want any misunderstandings. I will never, ever give my business to your firm. Don't ask me again."

Irene sighed and rolled her eyes upwards. "Is this about what happened when we were kids?"

John growled under his breath and shifted even closer, forcing the smaller woman to back up against the bar. "You slept with my boyfriend, Irene," he bit out.

Irene threw back her head and barked a laugh that had a burst of heat make its way to John's face. "We were  _kids_! Don't you think it's time to move on, John?"

"It wasn't enough that you had everything that I could only dream about in school. You had the money, the prestige, the name, the adoration, the house, the clothes. Every boy in the school was drooling over you, eager to take the precious Adler heiress out. You could have had your choice of partners and you did. But you had to set your sights on the one thing I had, you had to take the one boy I loved." He snarled.

A fierce blush stole across Irene's cheeks as her own eyes narrowed. With a nasty hiss, she retorted with, "And it was  _wrong_! Men aren't meant to be with other men! Everyone knew that, everyone knew that you had somehow managed to ensnare Sherlock in a trap and he would eventually break free of your spell. I just helped to speed things up. Besides, when Sherlock invited me to the reception, I asked him why he wasn't taking you. He said something to the effect that you were 'out of the equation'. I thought he had finally come to his senses and was listening to his father."

It was depressingly easy for John to imagine Sherlock saying something like that. Far be it for him to directly disobey his father and scandalize his family's friends by taking another boy, not to mention the janitor's son, to something as prestigious as a reception.

_He's out of the equation._

So sure of himself. So arrogant.

John took a long slow breath, trying to remind himself that it didn't matter anymore. It was in the past and that was where it was going to stay, especially now.

Irene placed a hand on John's bare arm, adopting a friendlier tone. "Let's let bygones be bygones, what do you say?"

John noticed that the group was starting to disperse, the tour over. As he planned on joining them back to his car, he hissed one last statement to the crafty woman before him.

"Irene, your shallowness is so thorough, it's almost like depth. Some people may consider the term, 'ethical lawyer', to be a contradiction, but let me assure you, Irene. I require some degree of honesty and honor in anybody I do direct business with. And believe me, you and your  ** _partner_**  aren't even in the running."

* * *

_Ten Years Ago_

John ran a hand over his school uniform as he tried to ignore the sense of misgiving and foreboding that had firmly lodged itself in the pit of his stomach. Tried to ignore the whispers and giggles half-hidden behind raised hands. He wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but he swore he saw more than the usual amount of derision and pitiable scorn in the eyes turned his way, mixed with malicious humor and snobbery.

Feeling a moment of insecurity, John glanced over himself quickly, making sure he hadn't forgotten to dress properly today or something equally as humiliating. After a once over he was assured he hadn't, in fact he'd dressed pretty carefully today. Since being with Sherlock, he had started to take more care with his appearance since the other boy was constantly telling him how attractive he was and that Sherlock wanted everyone else to know it too.

Confident that his uniform wasn't lacking, John continued to walk through the hall towards his locker. Although his outward facade was his usual impassive calm, his fingers unconsciously tightened themselves around his book bag's handle strap; the whitening knuckles the only outward sign of the turmoil churning within. To his credit, John maintained his calm composure despite the increasing amounts of snide whispers and sideways glances being tossed his way.

Finally reaching his locker, he quickly ran through the combination and opened the door, taking temporary refuge from the stares of his peers by concentrating on collecting the books he would need for his first few classes. As he methodically replaced books he had taken to his room the night before with ones he would now need, he couldn't help but overhear the voices of his classmates closest to him.

"... janitor's son is back in the ditch where he belongs..."

"... only a matter of time..."

"... knew Sherlock wasn't serious about him..."

"... she's so much of a better match..."

"... breeding and social class far exceed his..."

John gritted his teeth, his eyes closing for a few seconds as he fought the growing tide of irritation and panic threatening to rise up. The few words he managed to overhear were enough to cause his already precarious confidence to shake, although he wasn't entirely sure why he was suddenly feeling so vulnerable and alarmed. All he was sure of was that his internal alarms, the little whispers inside of his own head that had been somewhat quelled for the past few years, had suddenly flared up once more, this time on full alert.

Taking a few deep breaths to collect himself, John closed the flap on his book bag and shut his locker door. He turned to head off to his first class, only to come to an abrupt stop as he found himself suddenly confronted with a smirking Sarah and a smug faced Irene.

"Well hey, if it isn't the janitor's son," Sarah said, her tone snide.

Used to the flak he received from the popular kids at school, John didn't blink once as he replied, "Yes, I suppose I am. What about it?"

Sarah leaned in closer to him, obviously acting as the little leader of the clique. "I wouldn't be so smug if I were you, John Watson. You've enjoyed the ride pretending to be one of us for far too long, but now it seems as if your fantasy has run its course."

John restrained himself from rolling his eyes in Sarah's face, his face neutral as he replied, "Same old song, Sarah. If you don't have anything new to insult me with today, please let me pass. I don't want to be late for class."

"Always trying to be the perfect student, hey John? Well, you might be able to fool the faculty of this school, but you're not capable of fooling Sherlock anymore. He's finally come to his senses about where  ** _trash_**  like you belongs and how lucky he is to have someone like Irene in his life."

Expression wary, although he tried his best to hide it from the trio before him and the rest of his peers who were avidly watching their interaction, John gave his head a slight shake of confusion. "What are you talking about, Sarah? Sherlock's with me, not Irene."

"Oh, is he? You might want to ask him again because I think his feelings have taken a turn for the better over the weekend. He and Irene had quite an interlude Saturday night at the London Heights Club, a very...  ** _intimate_**... interlude." Sarah let the word hang in the air, one eyebrow arched in a suggestive manner.

John shook his head again as he replied, "What on earth are you talking about, Sarah? Sherlock spent the weekend with his family, he told me he was last week."

For the first time since that morning, Irene spoke up, her tone sly and smug at the same time. "Well, I suppose that could be the truth since our fathers consider us all one big happy family anyway. We spent the weekend socializing with a few of our fathers' clients and partners, including a party at the country club Saturday night. One thing led to another that night, but I think it was only fate reasserting itself in Sherlock's life."

"I don't get it," John said confused, his gaze switching from girl to girl. "What are you talking about?"

"Sex," Sarah said bluntly. "Irene and Sherlock slept with each other Saturday night."

John felt the world fall from beneath his feet, shock and disbelief at Sarah's words ripping through his system with lightning speed. "W-what?"

Irene chuckled softly even as she shrugged her shoulders. "I always wanted to wait until we were married, but Sherlock was  ** _so-o-o-o_**  persuasive that night. After all, we had just spent most of the weekend together, in the world where we both belong, and I guess he finally saw the light, so to speak. Everyone in school knows what we did and now so do you."

John's eyes were wide, his face pale as the color fled from his skin. Suddenly all the innuendos, the whispers, and the glances made sense now. Fighting the rising panic and pain rising in his gorge, he clenched his eyes shut tightly and gave his head a furious shake. "You're both lying! I-I don't beli-"

"Oh, don't take our word for it, John. Why don't go ahead and ask Sherlock yourself? Ask him if it's true. He's right there," Sarah said as she pointed behind John.

John whirled around to look and sure enough, Sherlock was only a handful of feet away from him, surrounded by his classmates. The other boy's back was turned to him, but there was no mistaking him. The other boys were smiling and giving comments as they gave Sherlock brotherly punches on his arms and slapping his back.

From his vantage point, John couldn't discern the tone of the response his boyfriend was giving his classmates, nor was he sure that he even wanted to find out. Some previously hidden and nasty part of his imagination quickly conjured up an image of Sherlock and his grin overlaid with the cruel sneers of their classmates. As John's misgivings grew, so too did the pit in his stomach. Hoping that it was all a joke that his peers were playing on him, John started towards his boyfriend, Sarah and Irene forgotten behind him.

He must have unconsciously uttered some sort of distressed noise that was loud enough to carry through the busy halls, or perhaps Sherlock had some sort of sixth sense he'd forgotten to mention during the months of their relationship. Then again, it could have been the sudden smug sneers that graced his classmates faces that motivated Sherlock into turning around. Whatever it was, John was suddenly confronted with his boyfriend's face and the mixture of emotions running rampant over the gamin visage.

As his blue eyes locked with Sherlock's horrified gray ones, John suddenly knew. He knew that the whispers and Irene's unwanted confession were all true. He knew that the one person he had let beneath his guards had betrayed him in almost the worst possible way. Despite his sudden insight, some naively hopeful part of John's shattering heart forced him to say, "Sherlock...They're lying."

As Sherlock's face fell into a mask of anguish and he stepped forward while raising one hand. His mouth worked but nothing came out. John's own face crumpled and those horrible tears once again sprang into being. As he struggled to heroically hold the tears at bay, a distant part of John's consciousness noted that all conversation in the hallways had stopped and he and Sherlock were the center of attention. However, that wasn't one of his main concerns at the moment; he couldn't help it if everyone else had such dull and dreary lives that they had to pay attention to the potential drama unfolding before them.

"J-John, I-" stuttered Sherlock, as he haltingly approached his anguished boyfriend. "John--"

John shook his head, trying to dislodge the tears that were gathering in his eyes, refusing to allow the world to see his pain. His voice breaking as sorrow gathered in force, he whispered, "I don't... You're. You're just like the rest of _them_."

Mindful of the growing crowd, John fled the scene and the source of his torment. Breaking through the small group of girls behind him, he faintly noted the smug smirk on Irene's face. He no longer cared that classes were beginning soon, or that people were talking and whispering about him and the situation. All John knew was that he needed to run and hide away from the world that had once again rejected him; only this time it had been harsher in its cruelty.

"John! Wait!"

John ran. He didn't know if Sherlock attempted to follow him or if he was even still pretending to be concerned. He didn't care. As far as John was concerned, Sherlock had played his role in the joke, played it very well indeed. The least his now ex-boyfriend could do was to let John escape unhindered.

As John now raced through the less populated halls, he felt the tears finally escape their home to race down his cheeks. A sob lodged low in his throat, threatening to explode at any moment. A high keening noise was faintly audible and John barely realized it was coming from him. As he ran further through the school, he finally recognized the door to the rarely used classroom of the east wing.

Bursting through the door, he immediately slammed the door shut and secured the lock. As he turned back around to face the room, he noted dimly that it was indeed empty and likely to remain so. He finally released the sob building up inside him, his frame shaking with the intensity of his emotions.

Sliding down the door to the floor, John leaned against the cool wood and allowed his head to rest back. Tears streamed down unchecked as his shoulders jerked with each new sob that racked his frame. His thoughts were incoherent now, jumbled together and swirling with pain.

He didn't understand what was happening, why it was happening; why something that had been so right was now so horribly wrong. Images of his classmates' jeering and laughing faces kept swimming through his mind, mixed with Sherlock's face and expression when his secret had been revealed.

John ignored the solemn bell signaling the beginning of class, barely hearing it through his pain. As the rest of his peers shuffled off still chuckling over the morning's "entertainment", John sat alone, letting the empty classroom bear silent witness to his immeasurable sorrow.


	4. Rival

**_Well, hell._ **

That was the first thought that crossed John's mind as he stared down at the hastily written note with a nearly illegible scrawl all over it.

_John,_

_Something came up at work. Irene and I had to go to the office. I'll call you later._

_SH_

_*SH?*_  he fumed, even as he crumpled the sheet of notepaper in his hand.  _*The man can't even take the trouble to sign his entire name?*_

Sherlock hadn't even had the common courtesy to knock on his door and inform him of this in person. If the lawyer had, John might have decided to join the rest of the reunion guests on their excursion to that stupid garden tour. What was he supposed to do with himself all day? Sit around and wait for His Highness to call?

After all, it had been Sherlock's bright idea to skip the scheduled activity for the day in lieu of going into the city.

* * *

_20 hours earlier_

After the charming session at the winery, John had done his best to avoid both Irene and Sherlock. At the restaurant, he had seated himself at the far end of the group's massive table, keeping the two lawyers down at the other end. Throughout the entire meal, John had coldly ignored Sherlock each time the other had attempted to catch his eye.

Sherlock had been puzzled, thinking that John couldn't still be miffed about their chat in Mike's backyard, following that volleyball game. Yet, other than that, he could think of no other explanation for his hostility.

The cold shoulder had lasted throughout the entire meal and had carried over when the group had finally returned to Mike's house. Sherlock had had enough when John had entered the den of the house, and immediately turned around to leave when he had spotted Sherlock already seated within.

Sherlock had asked his ex-boyfriend what was his problem and John had answered with a surly, "Nothing."

Silence had spread between the two before John finally glanced down at Sherlock's spread paperwork and muttered, "Is that what you went back for this morning?"

"Yes."

"You forgot to bring it with you on Saturday?" John asked, raising one eyebrow in his skepticism.

Sherlock wasn't about to tell John that he hadn't exactly planned on staying the entire reunion week; at least he hadn't until he had been sure that John would be there. And nevermind the fact his flat was within a reasonable driving distance of said reunion. However, this was as close to John as he would be able to get and he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity. After learning that they could be sharing the same house for the remainder of the week, he had had to invent some excuse to returning to his flat and getting his clothing. Snatching some work from the office had been very convenient.

"Something came up. I had to go back for additional paperwork."

"And they couldn't just courier it out here?"

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He said, "No, they wouldn't have sent everything I needed, and I would have ended up losing even more time."

John shook his head as he stuffed his hands into his jean pockets. "You're a partner now, Sherlock, high up the chain of command. You should be learning to delegate."

Sherlock arched his own eyebrow, retorting with, "And who's minding Watson MD Family Medicine? It must be busy right now with your expansion plans."

He was answered with a frosty stare and an equally frigid snarl, "I have no desire to discuss my business plans with you."

Sherlock scowled back and defended, "Just a friendly question."

He was again answered with disdain. "Irene already treated me to the hard sell, and I'll tell you what I told her. It's not happening. I'm very happy with Darlian and Dermail."

 _Oh fuck._  "John, I wasn't trying to..." Sherlock broke off as he attempted to calm John's ruffled feathers. Gathering his flying thoughts, he continued, "Do you think I'd make a play for your business after not seeing you for ten years? Especially after what happened between us? Come on, John," he pleaded, his hands spread open, palm up, in a gesture of appeal.

John crossed his arms over his chest, his stance defensive. He retorted with, "Please Sherlock, I know you and Irene discussed it. Don't treat me like an idiot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw his arms up to the heavens in an appeal for celestial intervention. Making a sound in the back of his throat, some kind of cross between a sigh and a growl, Sherlock said, "Yes, we discussed it, because Irene was insistent on approaching you. She has tunnel vision when it comes to recruiting new businesses to the firm. I told her it was... inappropriate for either one of us to go after you. I assumed that would be the end of it."

At Sherlock's 'inappropriate', John gave a snort of his own, his tone clearly derisive. He eyed Sherlock warily, studying his expression and gauging his level of sincerity.

Sherlock's face was wiped of the easy-going congeniality from before, his eyes earnest and sincere with his explanation. "I'm genuinely sorry. You shouldn't have had to put up with that."

Sherlock thought back on how John had acted at the reunion banquet and how he had artfully handled some of their more lewd former classmates, and a streak of laughter bubbled within, threatening to overflow. With eyes sparkling with a bit more mirth, he said, "Can I assume you made Irene sorry she asked?"

John's face was still set in a deadpanned expression, although some of the tenseness in his shoulders eased a bit. In a voice that carried no inkling of his true feelings and thoughts, he said generously, "Yes, I think you can safely assume that. I believe she has scratched Watson MD off her list of prospective clients."

Sherlock bit on his lip, attempting to stifle his laughter. He shouldn't take such satisfaction in Irene's defeat, no matter how well deserved. After all, they shared a principle mandate to bring in new business to their firm. Yet, against his will, his mind supplied him with a vision of John cutting Irene down, ruthless ice in his deep blue eyes. Shaking his head, Sherlock said, "I wish I could've witnessed that."

For one brief moment Sherlock and John's eyes locked, and in that instant they seemed to be connected on the same wavelength. The bond they'd shared, once robust and nourished by their love and trust, was now buried under the weight of his betrayal and their years apart. Yet, buried and withered from neglect, it seemed their connection was far from dead.

John blinked and it was gone, like a phone connection that had been severed. Yet, the fact that they could resurrect it in such a brief instant gave Sherlock hope for the future. For their future.

Taking this opportunity, Sherlock launched an offer, hoping that John would accept it. "John, I know you don't want to go on that garden tour tomorrow."

John merely raised his eyebrows, but didn't bother to deny it. To him, flowers and gardening were a major yawn. Not to mention that he couldn't keep a cactus alive. He shrugged and said, "What did you have in mind?"

"Come with me to the city. Just the two of us. We'll walk around for the day."

Sherlock's face had such a pure, incandescent look of bliss on it that John almost laughed. He'd bet that Sherlock spent nearly every weekend working, never getting a chance to just do as he pleased. John was very tempted, even if he reassured himself it was only to let Sherlock have a day off.

But still... it sounded much like a date, being just the two of them. Was he wise to fuel the fire by giving them time alone together? Especially when all John wanted to do was get through the rest of this week and then leave all memories of Sherlock, Irene, and the entire sordid affair behind him?

Sherlock could tell what thoughts were going through John's mind; he could read the doubt and wariness in those blue eyes just like the old days. Hastily, he added, "It's not a date, if that's what you're thinking. Say yes. Nod your head. Send up a smoke signal. Anything."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes, even as he thought about all the weekends Sherlock probably spent pouring over law books and depositions, never getting a day off. With a smirk that lit up his face, and inconsequentially Sherlock's spirits, he nodded his head.

* * *

Which just brought John back to his current dilemma.

Frowning, John tossed the wadded up note into the nearest trash bin and stomped off. Stomping his feet over the bare wooden floors, he slammed doors closed as he passed through them, taking a bit of satisfaction in the solid bangs. So he was acting infantile. So what? It made him feel better and no one was around to witness his performance.

John paused in the kitchen to rethink. No, on second thought, it didn't make him feel better. He was mad, though he wasn't sure whom he was angrier at: Sherlock for standing him up, or at himself for giving the idiot a chance. He should have followed his instincts and turned Sherlock's invitation down, but some smothered part of his heart had begged him to take a chance. His mistake. He seemed to be making a habit of those when Sherlock was involved.

As he got himself a bottle of mineral water, John sighed. No matter how angry or annoyed he was, it didn't change his situation any. Here he was, all alone, left to think of something to do with his time.

John turned around from the fridge and nearly dropped his bottle of water in surprise. "Christ! Don't sneak up on people like that!" he reprimanded, though his tone was light.

Greg was standing in the entrance of the kitchen, a leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. John blinked as he registered the graceful tan the policeman had after only two days of sunny weather. He looked good, with a slight feathering of salt and pepper taking over the sides of his hair that made him seem older than his years.

A smirk crossed Greg's face even as he said coolly, "I wasn't sneaking, but with all of the racket you're making, I'm not surprised that you didn't notice."

John glared at the laughing man even as he said, "I didn't think anyone else was here."

Greg shrugged as he tossed his car keys to his other hand. "I didn't feel like staying at the garden tour. I decided to come back, change, and head off to the pub."

 _*Well, Sherlock be damned,*_  John though uncharitably. He was going to make the most of this day and get reacquainted with his old friend instead of waiting around for Sherlock's call like a pining boyfriend.  _*Which I'm not,*_  he reminded himself furiously.

Taking a last swallow of his water, John licked his lips before asking, "Want some company?"

Greg thought for a second, his gaze fleeting over John for one brief moment. Surprise crossed his face, followed quickly by an indeterminable expression, only to fall back into a sincere smile.

"I'd like that," he said quietly.


	5. Curiosity

Sherlock was fit to be tied.

His face was set in a brooding expression, thunderclouds of gloom threatening to gather over his head. Normally quite capable of talking up a storm when he needed, he had been silent throughout the evening meal, which Mike, his associates, and his guests were taking at a local restaurant. Luckily no one, with the exception of the shrewd Irene who had managed to snag a seat at his left, noticed the death grip he had on his silverware. If anyone else happened to catch it, they were prudently refraining from commenting.

Or they were just plain ignoring him, like the current object of his attention.

Sherlock's eyes were staring at John, who had grabbed a seat as far away from the lawyer as possible, when they had all arrived at the restaurant. Unfortunately for John, but luckily for Sherlock, the buffet length table had filled very quickly and John had only managed to seat himself a handful of seats away. Conveniently, his seat was in Sherlock's direct line of sight, so if any of his classmates were still clueless about what held Sherlock's interest, then he could bluster his way around an easy excuse.

John had been ignoring his pointed looks and stares for the better part of the evening, the man bestowing his attention on Greg Lestrade, seated to the doctor’s right.

Sherlock was miffed and slightly baffled. Surely John had gotten his note...

"Not to your taste, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked for a moment, reining his thoughts in and focusing on the speaker. "I'm sorry?" he said, intelligently to the woman sitting on his left.

One of Irene's elegantly plucked eyebrows rose as she gestured to his rather full plate and the unfortunate chicken breast that he had been stabbing with his knife. "I think it's already dead, Sherlock," she deadpanned. "Is something wrong with it?"

"No, no," he reassured hastily, even as he cut off another slice of his chicken piccata and lifted it to his mouth. "It's fine," he murmured, barely tasting it. Momentarily appeased, Irene once more turned to address Molly, talking business as usual.

Actually, the chicken tasted like sawdust to the lawyer, but it wasn't the food's fault. As he chewed, he glanced once more over in John's direction. Swallowing his mouthful, he took a sip from his water glass and mulled over his current obstacle. Clearly he couldn't make a move until he knew what was irritating John, but the other man just wouldn't let him maneuver them into some private time alone.

In addition to some time alone, mostly to make up for skipping out on their city rendezvous, Sherlock also had some questions he wanted John to answer.

Like what he had done all day while Sherlock had been stuck in a stuffy conference room.

Where he had gone.

And who he had been with.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he watched John and Greg sitting side by side at the table. Unable to catch their entire conversation, just snatches of phrases here and there, he could only guess at their newly erected level of camaraderie. Sherlock's mouth thinned into a suspicious frown as an idea began to form in his imagination. He had a twinge of suspicion about who John had spent the day with.

Sarah, who was on Sherlock's right, had been watching the lawyer watch the doctor all evening. Her eyes narrowing into sly slits, she casually commented as she speared her asparagus, "It looks like John and Greg are getting along famously, doesn't it? Such a sweet guy, that Greg."

Sherlock almost choked on his bite of rice before he remembered to swallow and then croaked out, "Sweet? Greg?"

Sarah merely smiled cattily as she munched on her tender vegetables. Swallowing delicately, she continued, "Yes, he really mellowed out after marrying. But that was so terribly sad about his wife."

Sherlock took another sip of his water as he murmured his wordless agreement, his eyes never moving from where John and Greg were laughing about something.

Taking a sip of her red wine, she fluttered her lashes for a moment before sighing wistfully, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if Greg found someone nice and settled down again?"

Although he said nothing, Sarah could tell her remark hit a barb with the lawyer as his hand tensed around his glass. Content with the mischief she had just roused, Sarah moved her attention to the classmate on her opposite side, leaving Sherlock to stew in his own imagination. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Irene's disapproving frown, aimed at her, and the auburn bombshell merely smirked as she slightly raised her wineglass in a mock toast.

The exchange went unnoticed by Sherlock, who was still occupied with trying to bore a chasm between John and Greg with his gaze alone. Although a rational part of his analytical mind reasoned out that Sarah was trying to cause mischief, a tiny, ugly streak of jealousy shot through him. It whispered its suspicions to him in a nasty whisper, uncharitable in its tone.

*It looks as if the 'sweet guy is working on just that, doesn't it?*

Sherlock's mood turned darker as he took another stab of his chicken, fiercely wishing this dinner was over and done with so he could corner John alone.

The reunion guests milled around outside of the restaurant, bellies full and their mood exuberant. Well, most of them.

Sherlock's hands were jammed into the pockets of his trousers as he stalked down the stairs that led from the restaurant's entrance to the street below. Dinner had been less than satisfying for him, though he did his best to hide it from his classmates. But still, the mischievous insinuations of Sarah ate at his mind while he squirmed under Irene's disapproving frown.

He really had no cares where Irene was concerned; indeed her opinion was one of the least important things on the planet to him. However, she had managed to perfectly copy that thin, slightly irked frown his mother often wore when she was displeased by the current turn of events. He had been the recipient of that frown many times during secondary school.

John was standing at the foot of the stairs, talking pleasantly with Mike, reminiscing about the past. The renewed rapport between the two men reminded Sherlock of the past, when John had been one of Mike’s star pupils and he had helped Sherlock with biology research. It had been the start of a great friendship and more later on, but not without some grief from his classmates in the beginning.

“Oy, Sherlock.” The lawyer blinked as he watched Mike approach him suddenly, shoving keys into his palm. "Everyone else has already caught a ride back to the house. Why don't you drive my car back along with John. I have to stay for a bit with Margot, I’ll ride back later on with her.”

Sherlock looked at the keys, to John's less than pleased face, back to Mike’s craftily innocent one. The idea made sense, after a quick glance as cars began to file out of the car park. All the other reunion guests were gone, including Irene since she had still been talking Molly's ear off, which was a slight relief. They had all car-pooled to the restaurant, and Sherlock had been planning on catching a ride back with someone since he hadn't driven. The empty street looked like passing cab’s would be a no-go.

Flipping the keys into the air and then catching them, he agreed, "Alright, I'll drive John and myself back, unless John wants to drive?"

John looked at Mike’s car and shrugged noncommittally, unusually tight-lipped and indifferent.

Surprised, Sherlock shrugged and turned to Mike’s small, black convertible; he unlocked the doors and gestured to John. After they closed their doors and buckled their seat belts, Sherlock gunned the engine, pleased at the purr it made.

Realization hit him as he blinked quickly at the dashboard and gears and smirked as he slipped the car into first and pulled out of the car park into the semi-busy street.

Changing gears smoothly, he looked over at John for a split second before saying, "I get it.”

John continued to stare outside the window, through the brief snatches of reflection Sherlock managed, he still didn’t look pleased.

“Get what?” He asked blandly.

Sherlock shifted gears. “This is a stick shift, John. You never did learn, did you?” It was hardly a question. It would explain the hesitance.

John merely snorted.

“What about all those lessons I gave you in my old car?" Sherlock asked, desperate to keep a conversation.

Sherlock noticed the slight blush that coloured John’s cheeks. The doctor answered him with, "If you remember correctly, Sherlock, we never actually got around to teaching me how to drive a stick shift on those lesson days."

It was Sherlock's turn to blush as he remembered. They had always started out with the intention of teaching John to drive his car, but Sherlock had always taken them to some abandoned car lot or around a deserted pond to teach him the basics without endangering any bystanders. One thing always led to another and the driving lessons would turn into inventive make out sessions... as inventive as Sherlock could be while adhering to John's pants-on rule, that is.

"I remember," he said gently, his gaze focused on the traffic around him. As he shifted gears down to stop for a changing light, he looked at John for a long moment before saying, "John, I didn't want to break our date today, but sometimes things just happen."

John’s head whipped to face him so quickly, Sherlock was certain he strained something. "I thought it wasn't a date." He snapped.

Sherlock sighed as he said, "You are angry. I knew it. Would you just hear me out for a minute?"

Both men were startled as a horn blew from behind them, jolting Sherlock back to driving. The light had changed and he hadn't realized it. John turned his attention out his window to watch the passing buildings as he said, "I really don't feel like getting into this right now. I think you should pay attention to your driving."

Sherlock's voice held a note of sarcasm as he retorted, "Correction, you really don't feel like getting into this at all, period. You have no intention of hearing me out, isn't that right? No use for explanations."

John argued, "What's the point -"

"As far as you're concerned, you've been wronged and nothing can excuse it, isn't that right?" Sherlock has to shake the feeling of déjà vu that suddenly overcame him.

John snorted as he said, "Oh, you're very good, Sherlock. Very good at twisting things about. Do you do this in the courtroom too? Make the victim out as the guilty party?"

Sherlock spared John a glance before answering, "Is that how you see yourself? As a victim?"

John didn't say anything, merely glared for a moment before resolutely turning his attention out the window. The two men rode in silence for long moments, both too full of pride to capitulate the point.

As he continued to drive, Sherlock's grip on the steering wheel got tighter and tighter. He had meant to get John alone, find out what was bugging him, and make it up to him for missing their city escapade. But all he had managed to do was get them embroiled in another heated argument, raising old wounds.

He sighed, knowing that he was going to have to make the next step, else John would probably disappear again for another ten years. He pulled into an empty car park, slipped the car into neutral and pulled up the parking brake.

"Look," he said quietly, "I really wanted to go into London with you, I was looking forward to it. It didn't work out, and for that I apologize, but I would think as a business owner and doctor you would understand about emergencies."

For a pregnant pause, Sherlock thought John was going to continue to ignore him, and got ready to drive the rest of the way to Mike’s house in silence, but John surprised him. Gently he said, "It wasn't that... that I understood. It was the fact that you didn't tell me in person. All you had to do was knock on my door, but instead you left a note."

"That bothered you?" Sherlock asked, his tone slightly incredulous.

John turned to face him as he said calmly, "It felt like an afterthought. Like I didn't matter."

"John," Sherlock murmured, picking up the unresisting hand of the other man. Lightly stroking the slender, albeit tense, fingers, he continued. "I got a call at 4:00 a.m. An important case was threatening to blow up in our faces, witnesses balking and new evidence showing up. Irene and I had to bolt out of the house right then. I didn't want to wake you. Should I have pounded on your door at four in the morning?"

John looked sheepish as he murmured, "Only if you wanted to see how mad I truly can get."

"I figured you would find my note in plenty of time to join the others on the tour."

"I didn't find the note until everyone had already left.”

"So what did you do all day?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"We...Um. I went to the... pub with Greg."

Greg. Sherlock tensed at the name and his mouth curled down into a frown. There was a hesitance there in the sentence. A hitch and shift of eyes that spiked something fierce in Sherlock’s heart and he tried to read John’s carefully blank face. However, this went unnoticed by John, who was still staring at the hand Sherlock was gently kneading in his own.

Jealousy streaked through Sherlock's heart and mind before he sternly told himself to drop it. John had the right to salvage his ruined day, and the last thing Sherlock wanted was to project himself as a jealous suitor. A suitor, yes, jealous, no.

"Let me make it up to you, John. Give me another chance," he whispered pleadingly.

John was unnervingly quiet for a long time, his eyes still focused on the hand Sherlock was holding. Finally, like some gift from the gods, John raised his blue eyes to Sherlock's and he murmured with a shrug, "The others are going to a football game tomorrow night. I suppose … we could stay behind." He said as he pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s hold.

Undeterred, Sherlock smiled and said, "Alright then." He said carefully. “It’s a date.”

His smile got even bigger when John didn't even argue with him.


	6. Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graduated year is 1998, 'Present' year is 2008.
> 
> *If you guess why it's 2008 you get a cookie....

Rain splattered on the windows of Greg's slick black car. Since he was in the passenger seat, John didn't have to concentrate on the slightly risky driving conditions and could let his thoughts wander.

Their trip to the local pub haunt Greg had recommended had been enjoyable, before John had ruined the mood. His face still burned from his earlier outburst and despite Greg’s assurances it was fine, he still felt humiliated. Seemed twice today Greg had seen him at his most juvenile, emotional and unpredictable. And here he was determined to show everyone he had matured into a professional, not bothered by incidents of the past.

Through mutual consent, they had decided to head back toward the restaurant where they were to meet everyone coming back from their day of garden tours.

Greg stared pointedly ahead, before, “You alright?” He asked in a tentative tone.

John smoothed a hand over his grass stained knee, before nodding. “I’m sorry.”

“Christ, don’t be sorry John. It’s fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it _is_.” He shifted a gear. “I get it. When I lost Kelly…”

“ _Christ_.” John scrapped a hand over his face. “My losses and upsets when I was a teenager don’t compare to that. Something like that, Greg. I’m sorry.” He added lamely.

At that Greg fell silent and John slunk lower into his seat, miserable. He went back to staring out the window, not risking a glance to the policeman’s face.

The steady, pouring rain pounded against the top of the vehicle; the dying light of the sun reflecting in muted red and gold off of the drizzling water on the windows. Greg's radio was programmed to London’s quiet rock station, the muted strains of a soft rock band filling the silence in the car.

The smooth sounds of the car's clutch and gears, mixed with the sounds of rain and the slosh of tires through puddles of water, were nostalgic triggers to John, turning his thoughts to memories he had long ago believed dead and buried. The company and the music had been different back then, but so was he.

John stared straight ahead, his gaze turned inwards, even as his eyes followed the rather hypnotizing swishing of the car's wiper blades. The sun finally gave in and disappeared beneath the horizon, darkness settling like a soft blanket over the land. The car's headlights cut through the early evening, reflecting off of the falling rain.

Memories came unbidden to John, of another rainy night and another ride in a car, which had been one of the first pivotal turning points in his life during the golden days of youth.

* * *

_*fuck.*_

The blond boy grimaced and limped as yet more water rose to drench his already soaked body. Walking on the side of the road had definitely not been a good idea, given the current weather conditions. While it may be idyllic and pleasant when the weather was sunny, during the rain it was pure misery. Not only was he getting an unwanted shower from the heavenly downpour, but every time a car passed him, the resulting mini-tidal wave from wheels passing through puddles ensured that he became thoroughly saturated.

The balmy temperature of the spring day had dissipated in favor of the cooler London nights, which made the rain just more miserable. Of course, it wouldn't have mattered if John had been at home, curled up with a good book, watching the rain from a safe and dry haven. However, circumstances and fate were not being kind and he instead found himself walking in the downpour on the side of the road.

 _*Just the perfect ending to the perfect day,*_  he thought uncharitably, his mind wincing as he remembered the fiasco of the school day, even as his skin continued to pebble with goosebumps.

First there had been the disaster during P.E. The teacher had decided to chance the looming forecast and proceed with the planned 'Battle of the Sexes' football game. Boys against girls, oh joy.

John hated football. Rugby was more his sport, but even he knew he made a better spectator than participant.

The gym teacher, who John was certain had a vendetta against him, had insisted that  ** _all_** students had to participate in the game, or they would receive an 'incomplete' for the day. Still, he had managed to wade through the entire game rather unnoticed and ignored by the rest of the players, even though he was the smallest and weakest member of the boys' team.

Of course, he wasn't lucky enough for the streak to continue.

* * *

 

"Way to go, Watson," a classmate said, his sarcastic tone brittle and harsh. "Thanks for losing the game for us."

"What'd you expect? Given his breeding, it's not surprising he didn't inherit any skills," came one extremely hurtful, though not unfamiliar, comment.

"Yeah, where'd you learn to kick, Watson? You kick like a girl, so maybe you should join the girls' team next time!" sneered another.

The girls were no better, making their own dents in his battered feelings, whether intentional or not. "No thanks! We want to win again, not lose like you!"

* * *

John had been left on the field, alone with no desire to rush into the locker room with the others. He had no desire to face even more snipes and jeers by his fellow students, which assuredly awaited him in the showers. He lingered on the field, trailing long behind the others. P.E. was fortunately the last class of the day and there was plenty of time to change. However, while he was still on the field, the heavens decided to let loose their promised burden and the downpour had begun.

His leg ached, and he rubbed it absently, the source unknown. He hadn’t taken a hard enough spill to warrant the pain, but it throbbed nonetheless as he made his slow way inside. And by the time John reached the locker rooms, he didn't need that shower anymore.

He had rubbed at his face, telling himself he was just wiping off rainwater, and proceeded to change into his regular school uniform after toweling himself dry. Luckily for him, the locker room had been emptied by the time he arrived, and he didn't run into any trouble or hounding.

He grabbed his rucksack from his locker and slammed the door. The school's library was closed that week due to a fumigation problem, which meant he needed to go to the city library for his research material for his assignments. He rummaged through his bag, looking for change for the bus and came up short.

Fuck. So, not only did he have to trek by foot into town to the library, he had to do it in the bloody rain. The journey on foot would take a good hour. And this would be the one-day he forgot his umbrella at home.

John sighed and chalked the day up to one of those times it just didn't pay to get out of bed, despite threats from your mother. Gritting his teeth, he had set forth from his school and began to walk.

Of course, the perfect ending to his shit afternoon would be the fall of night and the continuous splashing of passing cars. John fervently looked forward to finally reaching the library, checking out his needed books, and heading home.

The beeping of a car horn behind him dragged the boy from his depressed cloud of thinking. Glancing over his shoulder, all he could see were the headlights of the coming vehicle. Thinking the driver must only be warning him about his approach, John moved further into the side of the road and kept walking.

However, that was obviously not what the driver had in mind and John was surprised as the car suddenly pulled over to the side of the road just ahead of him. John was puzzled because he didn't recognize the car. He didn't have any friends that had cars, in fact he didn't have any friends at all, and his father drove a run down lorry. The blue car's engine purred smoothly, obviously well maintained and cared for.

Just the tiny bit curious, despite his current misery, John limped up even with the driver's side of the car, keeping just a little bit of distance.

As he reached the window, it rolled down to reveal a sharp face that was familiar to the drenched boy. Everyone in the school knew who this boy was, whether they had ever spoken to him or not.

_*What in the world is_ **_he_ ** _-*_

John's thought was cut off as the driver suddenly glanced him up and down and asked, "You need a ride?"

John continued to stare blankly at the car's driver, his eyes wide with surprise, momentarily forgetting about the rain and his miserable state. The face staring back at him from the dry safety of the car's interior continued to wait for an answer.

When none came, the driver waved his hand in front of John's face. "You alright?"

John blinked and he shook his head to clear his stunned thoughts. Once more in control of his facilities, he said, "You're offering me a ride? How do you know I'm not some sort of serial killer?"

The other boy quirked one, elegantly shaped eyebrow and smirked. "Well, you're wearing a school uniform from our school, and as far as I know, we don't have any serial killers currently enrolled. That would be far too interesting a thing to occur at our school. I would never be so lucky. And it so happens I've seen you out during gym. You were the -"

John cut him off with a surly mutter, "Yeah, I was the one who lost us the game against the girls. What of it?"

Silver eyes blinked once before the boy answered, "I was going to say that you're the one who transferred in from the other afternoon section, aren't you?"

John felt instant remorse at his rudeness and averted his eyes, even as he replied, "Yeah, I am."

"Alright. You still want a ride? The offer's still open."

"I'll get your car all wet," came the quiet reply.

"I've got a couple of towels in the back seat."

John glanced up at the other boy for a brief minute, his mind racing with his choices. Finally, coming to a decision, he nodded his head once and made his way around the car. The gray-eyed boy rolled up his window and unlocked the doors to let John in. He reached behind him to the back seat, groped around for a bit, and triumphantly emerged with two large beach towels.

Setting one on the seat for John to sit upon, he gave the other one to the soaked boy to use to dry himself off. After John was seated in the car, he automatically locked the doors and proceeded to shift the car into gear. As he carefully looked for oncoming traffic, he prepared to pull back onto the road.

Shifting his gaze for one brief moment on his new passenger. “I’m headed to the library, where are you headed to?”

"I uh…Library," came the muffled response as John continued to towel his soaking hair. “Coincidence.” He muttered lamely.

The boy was quiet for a beat before, “Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy.”

 _God_ , whatever. John gave a grunt in response, as he finished drying himself off the best he could. Taking the now damp towel, he neatly folded it up and then held it in his hands, at a loss for where to put it.

The other boy continued to shift the car's gears, paying attention to the slick roads. Even though his concentration was on his driving, he still chatted, filling the car with his pleasantly deep voice. "Well, I recognize you from around school, but I'm at a loss at who you are. What’s your name?"

John was silent, heart hammering in his chest. He was completely surprised that anyone from his secondary school would be willing to talk to him, given his rather infamous reputation. After all, why would any of the elite want to lower themselves to talk to the janitor's son?

Nonplussed, Sherlock continued, "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

John's face flushed with slight embarrassment even as he muttered, "I know who you are."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised, "Really?”

John's face got redder which prompted his scowl to grow deeper. In a churlish tone of voice, he retorted, "Everyone in school knows who you are. The 'brilliant Sherlock Holmes'."

"True, true," Sherlock said immodestly as he continued. "Yet, you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I still don't know who you are.”

John was silent for a moment before he offered, "I'm John."

Sherlock seemed to consider for a moment. “John. Such an ordinary name…”

That did it, he didn't need any more of this today. Gathering up his bag from its place on the floor of the car, he clutched at the straps even as he said, "Forget it. I'll take my chances with the rain. Let me out of this damned car."

Sherlock glanced at him as he continued to drive. "I was just making an observation."

“Yeah, I get it.”

“An ordinary name for someone clearly not ordinary. Is what I was going to say.”

Sherlock glanced over at John, noting the agitation in his companion's face and his tense body. The smaller boy was hugging his wet backpack to him, as if he intended to use it as a protective barrier. However, a faint blush lingered on the boy's cheeks. However, whether it was from Sherlock's compliment or a lingering remnant of the boy's journey through the rain, still remained to be seen.

Sherlock asked seriously, "You don’t take compliments well. You probably don't like jokes very much, do you?"

Sensing the shift in atmosphere, John honestly replied, "Jokes tend to lose their appeal when you're the butt of most of them."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said sincerely.

“Why did you even stop to pick up someone like me?” John didn’t mean to have it come out so sharply.

Sherlock was quiet for a bit, then glanced up out the windscreen. “Well, it’s raining.”

John snorted. “Great deduction.” He shot back sarcastically.

Sherlock’s eyes went flinty, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “No, a good deduction would be your limp. I observed it one other time, a few weeks back in the halls. It isn’t a physical injury, it occurs when you’re emotionally compromised, which happened just a few minutes ago. Partly the reason I decided to pick you up. Your psychosomatic limp.”

“My psyc…”

“A _great_ deduction,” Sherlock continued sharply, “would be a your low socioeconomic status, due to the fact that your parents, more than likely your father, works in …” He caught a quick glance at John, which had him hugging his bag tighter with insecurity. “Custodial support. Staff for the school, which would account for your ability to attend.”

“ _Everyone_ knows that.”

“I didn’t know.” Sherlock shot him a look. “ I noticed. I imagine it’s natter around the halls, but I don’t listen to such gossip. But you’re a hard worker, having to prove yourself against your older brother. He doesn’t attend the school, does he?” His eyes shifted to John’s briefly, but the other boy was stone faced. “You don’t approve of him. Expelled, most likely. And your parents lean on you for support. Expect better things. It’s why you push yourself so hard. Take advanced classes.”

John jutted his jaw out and glanced at his partly open book bag, zipping it swiftly.

Silence crept between the two boys, who kept their thoughts to themselves for a moment. The soft muted sounds of a rock song faintly broke through the silence, barely audible, but neither boy made a move to turn it up.

Finally, “You worked that all out?” There was a note of quiet skepticism.

“Mm.”

“All that. Just now?”

“Yup.” Sherlock said, popping the ‘P’ hard, hand switching the right indicator light.

“That’s brilliant.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Really?”

John looked down at his hands. “I mean, well yeah.” John shrugged.

“You’re not upset?” Sherlock motioned his head to the door. “You don’t still want out?”

“Can’t be upset with the truth. And that was impressive. But it's my sister, not my brother but... impressive.” He trailed.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, sneaking another glance. “Father doesn’t usually like me making deductions. I’ve often offended many prospective clients.”

“Well, don't need to worry about that. Don’t think I could afford your father’s services.”

At John’s self-deprecating smirk, Sherlock allowed himself a small smile.

As Sherlock braked to a stop at a red light, he happened to glance at John again; something which he had caught himself doing quite a lot in the past few moments.

Sherlock quietly observed the other boy. The other appeared slender and fragile; although Sherlock really couldn't tell in the non-descript uniform he was wearing. True, the cloth had been plastered to his frame when it had been soaked, but it was slowly drying now and concealing the boy's body.

John's hair was still damp, tendrils sticking to the sides of his face and the still wet ends curled around the base of his ears and the nape of his neck, barely brushing against the collar of his uniform. His features weren't very discernible in the glow of the dashboard's lights, but Sherlock's clear memory of seeing the boy in school gave enough to tease himself with. The low lights did provide enough to throw the planes of his face into clarity, hinting at a proud profile and carved facial structure that bore hints of real good looks to come.

So deep was he in his observation of John, he barely heard John saying, "- is green."

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he said intelligently, "I’m sorry?"

John turned his head to look at him while jerking with his head toward the street light. "The light's green," he repeated.

"Ah." Releasing the car's clutch, he spurred it into motion, pulling into the car park.

Sherlock threw the car into park, "We're here."

John nodded. “Right then.”

"Would you like a ride home when you’re done?”

John paused to give him one incredulous look, barely noting that the rain had stopped. He couldn’t shake the suspicious alarm that had him so wary and distrustful. Unable to come up with something to say in response, he threw open the car door and shut it loudly, heading quickly to the front door.

"John—“ he heard Sherlock's voice calling after him.

 _*God, he should just leave me alon--!*_  John's mental thoughts were interrupted as his footing slipped on the slick concrete of the stairs. His balance thrown off, he flailed his arms for a moment, dropping his bag in a rush, trying to regain his equilibrium. Unfortunately, he felt himself falling backwards and he closed his eyes in reflex knowing he was going to fall down.

However, his fall was aborted and he found himself pulled up against a solid chest and a pair of strong arms encircling his waist. "Close one,” a husky voice whispered in his ear.

John could feel a red-hot blush spread across his cheeks as the two boys remained in their slightly compromising position. His eyes were wide with surprise as Sherlock showed no compunction to withdraw his strong support. Despite himself, John could feel the muscles of his impromptu savior flush against his back, the strength lying dormant in those arms around his waist.

Gulping and hoping his voice didn't betray his sudden feeling of nervousness, he whispered back, "You can let go of me now."

"And what if I don't want to?"

Alarm slammed full force. "Please let go."

Sherlock withdrew his support from around John's torso. After ensuring that the other was stable on his feet, he stooped down to pick up John's rucksack. He held it out to the boy. "Here."

John snatched the bag from Sherlock's hand, not trusting himself to look into the other's face. His own was still flushed with his embarrassment and a tinge of something else he couldn't, and didn't want to, identify. Hiding his face, he hurried up to the library's doors.

Sherlock watched him go, his own mind in turmoil. _*'What if I don’t want to??' Jesus Holmes*_ Something was happening in him, something he had yet to ever feel before. All he knew was that there had been a sense of rightness in that brief embrace with John. Shaking his head, he snorted at his 'lust at first sight' thought.  _*Damn hormones*_  he thought uncharitably.

He proceeded up the stairs only to slow to a stop as he saw John standing still outside the doors. "What is it?"

John turned around to him, his expression incredulous. "It's... closed."

Sure enough, there was a large, bold sign that said, CLOSED on the glass doors.

"Hm."

John groaned even as he muttered, "Great, just great. I have a report for physics due and I don't have the materials I need."

“Can’t you just use your computer at home?”

Him? _Own a computer?_ That was laughable, and he threw Sherlock a filthy look.

Sherlock swallowed, picking up on the shift. "Would you happen to know about chemistry?"

John blinked at him and said, "Yes, I took that last year."

Sherlock gave him a sly grin. “And what would you say to knowing about biology?"

By this time John was wary of all the scholastic questions and he gave a short, "I know some."

"Then I propose this. I need assistance on a biology research paper I’ve been working on, the subjects keep exploding. Nevermind that bit.” He added quickly at John’s raised eyebrow. “You assist me on my experiment, and I’ll let you use my computer to research whatever you need.”

The _Internet_? John was really wary at this, fighting the hope that was rising in his mind even as he said cautiously, "That's it? I help you with your biology work and I get to use your computer?" It was too good to be true. He didn't have the luxury of computers, other than the brief intro class his first year.

Sherlock nodded his head. "Yes. Deal?”

John eyed Sherlock even as he asked, "This isn't some sort of joke, is it? You're not pulling a fast one on me, are you?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked in genuine confusion.

"I've seen the movies. The popular bloke befriending the social outcast. Usually it's because of a dare or a joke. So which is it?"

Sherlock’s face was wiped clean of jokes or teasing and replaced with sincerity. "No joke. I swear."

John stared up at Sherlock's face, his eyes searching for any signs of deception. Not finding any, he took a deep breath and said, "Alright, I accept your offer.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “Excellent. The cow eyes will have certainly congealed by now.” He commented as he made his way to his car.

John sighed. _*What have I agreed to?*_


	7. Hookie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I haven't fibbed like this since we used to tell my parents that we were going to the library to study," commented John, his concentration firmly on his chopsticks.

"You know, the others probably didn't believe one single word we said," commented Sherlock, digging chopsticks into his takeout box. As the lawyer became occupied with the task of keeping his noodles from hitting the floor, John took a quick moment to quietly observe his dinner companion from the corner of his eye.

The lawyer was unusually laid-back, his pose casual and relaxed in a way that was faintly reminiscent of their secondary school days. Clad in a simple pair of jeans and an oxford cloth, button down shirt, his black hair ruffled just so, he simply exuded a confident masculinity.

John was clad in a simple t-shirt and jeans, the dark blue hue of the shirt complimenting his eye color nicely.

The two young men were in the estate's large den, surrounded by tasteful yet somewhat eclectic decor that still managed to maintain a somewhat homey atmosphere. They were sitting cross-legged on tasseled floor pillows, though the floor of the den was covered in plush carpeting. They sat across from each other, the open takeout boxes between them on the glass top of the coffee table.

The iPod connected to the stereo in the background was set into a mellow playlist, playing both oldies and more recent songs while managing to maintain the serene mood. The overhead lights of the den had been turned off in lieu of the dozen or so vanilla scented candles that glowed from their spot in the far corner, augmented by only one small table lamp.

Somehow Sherlock had managed to scrounge up the tapers and probably believed them to be more conducive to a friendly, get to know each other again, atmosphere. The implied intimacy of the setting both appealed and repelled John, his heart and his mind warring with each other as the evening progressed. As he munched a potsticker, he idly wondered if Sherlock remembered that vanilla was his favorite scent.

Swallowing his mouthful, John shrugged his shoulders and replied to Sherlock's statement. "So we said a couple of white lies about headaches. You're a lawyer, I would have assumed you were used to lying," he teased.

Sherlock pouted and threw him a wounded look even as he playfully warned, "I can still catch the end of the match, if I hurry."

Both Sherlock and John had pleaded off from the evening's scheduled activity, conjuring up tales of headaches and fatigue. Most of their old classmates had given them their sympathies, along with numerous suggestions of cures ranging from taking a few aspirin to holistic practices. A few had given them cagey glances, their expressions full of doubt and disbelief but had kept their suspicions to themselves.

John couldn't be sure, but he was almost positive that Mike had given the two of them a comfortably smug smile before leaving that evening. The retired professor probably thought his little machinations of the previous night was responsible for the two's temporary reconciliation. In a way it was, but John wasn't going to give the crafty man the satisfaction of knowing his meddling was doing good. At least not yet.

And of course Irene had given them both a suspicious and downright nasty sneer, complete with a raised eyebrow before she had flounced haughtily off, letting Molly drag her away. That had been a surprised relief, considering the fact that John would have barricaded himself in his room if the dark brunette had stayed behind as well.

As soon as everyone had cleared off, Sherlock and John sorted through Mike’s collection of DVDs, selecting an action flick. Throughout the movie they had microwave popcorn, before their stomachs had informed them of the need for more substantial food. So they had ordered Thai, “the usual?” Sherlock had asked, complete with a couple of black-cherry sodas he had managed to find from God knows where. John tried not to be impressed.

"I haven't fibbed like this since we used to tell my parents that we were going to the library to study," commented John, his concentration firmly on his chopsticks.

Sherlock thought about John's innocent comment as he took a long pull from his bottle of soda. Though eager to rebuild the old bond that was currently lying dormant between the two, he was also cautious about bringing up anything of the past. Licking his lips he nonchalantly asked, "Do you think your parents ever suspected we were actually snogging by the pond? I don't think mine knew, or if they did they never actually said anything to me."

John shook his head, a faint grin playing on his lips. "Ten years ago I would have said no, but I got the courage a few years after graduation to ask my mother."

Sherlock gulped as his memory flashed with the image of John's loving mother and her sincere, maternal smiles. "What did she say?" he asked, his eyes widening.

John chuckled softly, causing Sherlock to involuntarily hold his breath. How he missed that sound and yearned to hear it everyday for the rest of his life. "Mum said that back then she figured whatever I was doing on our 'study' dates had to be good for me because I'd come back with flushed cheeks and a twinkle in my eyes. She said she was glad I was doing it with you and not some irresponsible boy who didn't respect me. But she did mention that I once came back from the library with my shirt inside out."

Sherlock groaned in mortification that was ten years past due. He could only imagine what had passed through Mrs. Watson's mind. John laughed at Sherlock's embarrassment, the smirk on his face growing larger with each passing moment of shared remembrance.

Propping his chin on one hand, John mused, "I wonder if I'd be able to practice such restraint if I was a father. I mean, could I trust enough in my kid's judgment and maturity even if I was  ** _sure_**  something was going on?

Sherlock smiled at John, his expression soft and charming. "I think you'd make an excellent father, John. And your mother's trust was well founded. I still ache remembering how well you kept  ** _my_**  adolescent urges in check."

As soon as the sentence was out of his mouth, Sherlock fought with the urge to bite his tongue. Here he had been afraid of destroying their fragile détente by bringing up old memories and then he had just plowed right back into one of the sticky topics of their past. He was anxious that his comment might remind John that when Sherlock had finally given into his adolescent urges, he'd been nowhere in sight.

However, it seemed his worry was for naught. John's smirk didn't fade, merely changed into a lopsided smile. His wonderful blue eyes softened even further as he murmured, "You weren't the only one struggling with urges, Sherlock. I had to keep us  ** _both_**  in check."

Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding, hoping to conceal the expulsion with a rush of words. " _Honestly_ John, those dates in the car were heaven and hell at the same time."

John laughed at the grimace that Sherlock twisted his face into, even as he answered, "I'm sure we both took an infinite number of cold showers, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes took on a sorrowful expression, his face becoming serious and tinged with forgotten yearning. "I wish-" he started.

John shook his head even as he reached forward to place a finger on Sherlock's lips. The two men's bodies tingled where they touched, Sherlock on his lips and John on his hand. "Those are the good memories," John said. "They're still good memories, Sherlock. They always have been and always will be."

John lifted his hand away, but Sherlock wasn't having any of it. He reached out, capturing John's hand and turning it over. He pressed a hungry kiss to the soft palm, never once taking his eyes away from the other man. His expression was so raw, so open, filled with heartbreaking yearning and desire. John's breath was taken away, his eyes captured and held by Sherlock's, struck dumb by the wealth of emotion being openly displayed.

John stared into Sherlock's eyes, searching for something that remained nameless. Yes, Sherlock's yearning and desire, sorrow and hope were evident for the unsure man to see, but John needed something more. Deep down John knew it was assurance that he needed, understanding and trust that he was doing the right thing by giving Sherlock a second chance, that he wouldn't grow to regret this tomorrow or later. But beyond that, John knew he also wanted to ensure that Sherlock felt the same way, that this wasn't some sort of attempt at soothing an early mid-life crisis by completing a fantasy of the past.

 _*You don't get anywhere without taking risks, Watson. That's your second rule,*_  John reminded himself.

An old, slow song suddenly started on the iPod, jerking John from his thoughts. Still keeping eye contact, Sherlock suddenly rose, forcing John to come to his feet as well since he wasn't letting go of the captured hand. Voice rough with emotion, Sherlock said, "Dance with me, John."

Sherlock gently guided John around the small coffee table until the other man was standing in front of his ex-boyfriend. Drowning in each other's eyes, almost afraid to take them off each other, Sherlock gently captured John's other wrist and placed them around his neck. Releasing them, he encircled John's trim waist with his own arms even as he began to sway gently to the song.

Sherlock led John in a slow dance, their bodies moving together in a nearly forgotten harmony. "I've heard of true loves that lasted forever. I guess there is a way. And I've heard of true loves that needed each other. More and more each day," Sherlock crooned along with the music. John closed his eyes as Sherlock's velvet voice wrapped around him.

“I’d forgotten how much you liked to dance.” John murmured and felt Sherlock huff against him.

“Only with you, John. Only with you.”

Being this close to Sherlock was a heady experience, no matter the history between the two men. John breathed deeply, the lightly spiced cologne that Sherlock was wearing mingling nicely with the lawyer's own unique scent. Forgetting everything that had happened between them in the past and during the last few days, John gave himself up to the moment, leaning into Sherlock's body and resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. In response, Sherlock's arms tightened around John's waist, drawing him as close as possible, while still singing in his ear.

Sherlock's own eyes having closed by this point as he savored having John within his arms again. He turned his face into John's hair, smelling the aroma of scented shampoo and John's musk amidst the silken strands.

As the song drew into the last refrain, Sherlock stopped their dancing, content to hold John still, wrapped in his embrace. As the muted strains of the song danced through the air, Sherlock felt John stir and lift his head from his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes opened and he looked down to meet John's gaze.

John's mask had dropped completely, his gaze open and honest. Sherlock could swear that he saw his own remorse and longing mirrored in the blue of them, his hope strengthening in his chest.

His voice husky, Sherlock whispered, "How about it, John? Can we have the start of something new?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, how about it John!?


End file.
